The next morning, while Mark was in the shower, I unplugged his gaming equipment and made a chore chart, complete with gold stars, hanging it on the fridge.
When Mark came downstairs, I greeted him with a cheery, “Good morning! I made you breakfast!”
He looked at me suspiciously. “Uh, thanks?”
I placed a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake in front of him, complete with a smiley face made from fruit. His coffee? Served in a sippy cup.
“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the pancake.
“Your breakfast! And look, I made you a chore chart!”
His eyes widened. “A chore chart?”
“That’s right! You can earn stars for cleaning up, doing the dishes, and putting away your toys!”
“My toys? Sarah, I’m not a—”
“Watch your tone!” I scolded. “No whining, or it’s straight to the timeout corner.”
For the next week, I stuck to my plan. Every night at 9 p.m., I shut off the Wi-Fi and unplugged his gaming console. I even tucked him into bed with a glass of milk and read him Goodnight Moon. His meals? Served on plastic plates, and his sandwiches cut into fun shapes. Whenever he complained, I’d calmly remind him, “Big boys don’t whine.”
The breaking point came when I sent him to the timeout corner for complaining about his screen time. He sat there, arms crossed, fuming, as I set the timer.
“This is ridiculous!” he shouted. “I’m a grown man!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you? Because grown men don’t make their kids sleep on the floor so they can play video games all night.”
He finally admitted defeat. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.”
I studied him for a moment. “Apology accepted. But I already called your mom…”
His face paled. “You didn’t.”
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. Mark’s mom, Linda, stormed in, eyes blazing. “Mark! Did you really make my grandkids sleep on the floor while you played video games?”
Mark was speechless. “Mom, I—”
Linda cut him off. “Sarah, I’m so sorry. I thought I raised him better.”
I patted her arm. “It’s not your fault, Linda. Some boys take longer to grow up.”
Mark muttered, “I’m 35.”
Linda ignored him. “Well, I’ll be staying for a week to help get this house back in order.”
Mark sighed in defeat. “Sarah, I’m really sorry. I won’t do this again.”
I smiled. “I know. Now, go help your mom with the dishes. Maybe we’ll have ice cream for dessert if you do a good job.”
As he shuffled off to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but feel a little smug. Lesson learned—hopefully. If not, the timeout corner was ready and waiting.