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The Thomas Beisner fatherhood experience


Ok, kids, buckle up and get ready for a magical ride. I’m about to tell you a little tale about the new life of your favorite blogger because, if there is anything this website needs more of, it’s me. But, before we get into the wizardry and start weaving this magical story of enchantment, let’s set the background. As some of you might know, I am now an engaged man. While this was obviously a crushing blow to the dreams of both our female readers and Bryan the Intern, it’s not really the whole story. You see, what some of you probably don’t know is that my fiancee also has a nine year-old son – a child that I’m brainwashing with the blue and white nearly every day. We’ll call him “Tyler” for the purposes of this story. But, if that hasn’t yet blown your mind, then marinate on this: my fiancee is also carrying a baby Beisner (try to question my hetero street cred now!) that should be hatched and fully developed in time for the Rivals’ 2028 rankings. That’s right, I’m ascending into adulthood faster than Robin Williams in Jack.

And this, fatherhood veterans, is why I come to you today. Breisner needs advice.

Basically, a busted starter on the trusty ’01 Bravada had me crashing at the fiancee’s place for a few days and, given her general state of pregnant, slightly drained mentally and physically. I was starting to battle a little bit of the flu and decided that it would be in the best interest of the baby, Tyler and the continuance of our relationship if Daddy retreated back to casa de Beisner for a little quiet time to mellow out and get some rest. But, as Lee Corso would say, “Not so fast, my friend!”, it was only a matter of minutes before peaceful, happy sleep time was interrupted with a call that pregnancy complications and issues would require a trip to the emergency room. 

Being a baby daddy is hard work.  Very hard work.

So, off we went to the emergency room.  Now, this is already getting a little drawn out and the emergency room portion isn’t really the crux of the story so we’ll breeze through it a bit.  To basically get the effect of how your flu-ridden, worn-down blogger buddy was feeling that night at the hospital, I need you to do something.  First, lay down on some cold tile.  Turn on Sean Hannity to an annoyingly loud level and then try to drown it out by blasting some latin rap music. Then, try to out-loud Hannity and the gangster salsa with Billy Mays trying to sell you the Awesome Auger.  Finally, punch yourself in the stomach and violently shake your head until you’re nauseous.  Do this for hours upon hours and you’ll begin to understand how I felt between 8 pm and 2 am.

But, everything turned out ok and Daddy’s little power forward is healthy and still on track for a January birth.  We’re all good there.  We’re just not sure if Tyler is going to make it to see the birth.

You see, while we were at the hospital, the sweet 70ish year-old neighbor stayed with Tyler and he was insistent on trying to stay up and wait for us to get home.  Not surprisingly, after we returned from all the emergency room pleasantness, Tyler was sleeping on the couch with the TV on, falling just short of making sure mom and fetus were both ok.  She made a comment about what a sweet little angel he was and I scooped him up and put him to bed.  Daddy had one priority and that was going to bed ASAP.  It was almost time to go back to the office.

As I moved toward the bathroom for my nightly Ryan Kelly “Pooptooth” prevention routine of scrubbing my teeth, I heard he neighbor talking about how Tyler’s stomach was upset and was throwing around words like “diarrhea” and “vomiting”.  Not that I’m not sensitive to some painful dook, I was just on a mission to hit the sack and it didn’t really register with me.  But, as I sat there brushing, my attention was drawn to the bathroom floor where, as the lights of Heaven shined down on it, I saw my favorite UK shirt, still nestled on the tile from when I hopped in the shower that morning.  I was only moments away from the comforting feel of threaded-out cotton gently hugging me and telling me it was going to be ok.

Boy, was I wrong.

As I started to reach down to grab the shirt, I heard “diarrhea” and “upset stomach” and “vomiting” spinning in my head like it was a rush of Sean Hannity and the Awesome Auger.  I was just inches away, moving in slow motion, when I noticed the toilet paper roll was empty and laying in the middle of the floor.  Strange, but still not a red flag.  So, I grabbed the shirt that I’ve shared such good times with for just under a decade and noticed that something was noticeably standing out from it’s sweaty, off-white natural color. 

Like most people, my first thought was “Who let the damn dog in here with muddy paws?”, and wondered if I could yell at the neighbor after she stayed up until almost 3 am with Tyler.  But then, it hit me.  This could be something a lot less innocent than mud.  I had no choice but to do a smell test.  So, I leaned in, doing a sort of chicken head movement by darting my head forward and then rapidly retreating, hoping to catch a wiff before repeating the movement, going a half-inch closer each time to make sure I never got too close to the danger zone.  But, to borrow the word’s of Richard from Tommy Boy, “Hey Chucko, that didn’t smell like mud”.  Yep, that little angel we had just put to bed had run out of toilet paper and decided to wipe himself clean with my favorite UK shirt.  Mom blames it on a combination of sleepwalking and just being very, very sick.  I”m not sure what to think.

And that’s why I’m here today, fatherhood veterans.  How do I handle this situation?  Do I punish him for ruining my UK shirt or do I applaud him for his survival instincts?  I have to say, I’m a little proud of my Bear Grylls of the Bathroom.

Discuss and advise below.

Article written by Thomas Beisner