I even tucked him into bed with a glass of milk and read him “Goodnight Moon” in my most soothing voice.

His meals were served on plastic plates with little dividers. I cut his sandwiches into dinosaur shapes and gave him animal crackers for snacks. When he complained, I’d say things like, “Use your words, honey. Big boys don’t whine.”

The chore chart was a particular point of contention. Every time he completed a task, I’d make a big show of giving him a gold star.

“Look at you, putting your laundry away all by yourself! Mommy’s so proud!”

He’d grit his teeth and mutter, “I’m not a child, Sarah.”

To which I’d reply, “Of course not, sweetie. Now, who wants to help make cookies?”

The breaking point came about a week into my little experiment. Mark had just been sent to the timeout corner for throwing a fit about his two-hour screen time limit. He sat there, fuming, while I calmly set the kitchen timer.

“This is ridiculous!” he exploded. “I’m a grown man, for God’s sake!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you sure about that? Because grown men don’t make their children sleep on the floor so they can play video games all night.”

He deflated a little. “Okay, okay, I get it! I’m sorry!”

I studied him for a moment. He did look genuinely remorseful, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook when I had one last blow to deliver.

“Oh, I accept your apology,” I said sweetly. “But I’ve already called your mom…”

The color drained from his face. “You didn’t.”

Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to reveal Mark’s mother, looking every bit the disappointed parent.

“Mark!” she bellowed, marching into the house. “Did you really make my sweeties sleep on the floor so you could play your little games?”

Mark looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “Mom, it’s not… I mean, I didn’t…”

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