After a week-long business trip, I came home at midnight, eager to hug my kids. But instead, I found them asleep on the cold hallway floor, tangled in blankets, their little faces smudged with dirt. My heart nearly stopped. I followed the sound of faint noise to their room and there was my husband, Mark, gaming away on a massive TV he’d set up, surrounded by soda cans and junk food.

The kids’ beds were untouched. When I demanded an explanation, he shrugged: “They thought it was an adventure.” I was furious. The next morning, I decided if Mark wanted to act like a child, I’d treat him like one. I served him Mickey Mouse pancakes, gave him a chore chart with gold stars, and even enforced a 9 p.m. screen-time cutoff.

At first, he laughed it off until his own mother showed up (thanks to me) and scolded him for making her grandkids sleep on the floor while he played games all night. Mortified, Mark finally admitted he’d been selfish and promised to step up.

That night, as I tucked my boys into their real beds, I knew one thing: Mark’s “fun parent” act was over. He was going to be the father they needed or I’d make sure of it.