Madness

I've been played. I've been played like a fiddle by my own husband, and I know it.

I knew it the minute I heard myself say, "Villanova is losing by fourteen at the half--they better pull it out because I've got them going two more rounds."

I don't even know myself anymore. Who have I become?

It all started about 6 years ago. I'm guessing the conversation went something like this:

"Hey Jeremy, you ready for March Madness?"

"Yeah, but I don't know how much I'm going to be able to watch...my wife's not that into it. I don't know why, but she doesn't see the fun in watching 18 games in a row for three weekends straight."

"Mine either. Wouldn't it be cool if our wives were really into it. Then we could watch all we want!"

[Drumming his fingers with a devious smile] "I have an idea..."

This has been a dramatization.

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So here's what those sneaky boys decided to do.

They came up with a plan whereby to manipulate the fact that we were new moms with young babies and we would do anything for some time away. Anything. So they lured us. They lured us with the holy grail of mommydom -- a Girl's Day.

So sneaky. So manipulative. So deviously brilliant.

I think the proposition went something like this:

"Honey, you're an excellent mom--the best mom in the whole wide world."

[Turning my head without taking my eyes off of the flailing legs and grabbing hands of the baby on the changing table] "Huh?"

"Wouldn't you like a break?"

[Nearly knocking the half-diapered baby off the changing table in a mad dash for the front door] "Oh! yes! A break! Definitely! Where's my purse? Never mind. I don't need it. Oh thank you! You're wonderfu--"

"Hold on just a second. I didn't mean now. See, I have this idea..."

This has been a dramatization.

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Did you see how he lured me? He just lured me right in.

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in front of a blank NCAA Tournament bracket with a pencil in my hand while my husband--my sweet, wonderful, supportive, compassionate husband--explained the rules.

"You pick the teams you think will win."

"How am I supposed to know who will win?"

"Well, all the teams have a seed...a 1 seed is high seed and 16 is the lowest."

"Why is 1 high and 16 low? That doesn't make sense. And why do they call it a seed? This is wierd."

"Never mind the seeds. Ok, so you pick who you think will win each game in the first round, and then those teams will play each other in the second round, and so on. And you get points for every win you pick. Upsets are worth double points."

"I'm upset. Do I get points for that? When do I get my Girl's Day?"

This has been a dramatization. Sort of.

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So I filled out my bracket. I had no idea what I was doing, but I didn't care. It was a shot at freedom. At liberty. At a pedicure.

And when the first day of the tournament came, I was glued to my computer. Those teams held my very happiness in their hands, and I had to know who would win.

Played like a fiddle, I tell you.

And now, six years later, it has become an annual tradition. We've gone from two couples to four in our little pool, and the stakes have been raised. Whichever couple gets the most points gets taken out to dinner at the restaurant of their chosing by the other couples. And the husbands and wives still compete for their respective day of freedom.

And I've come a long way personally.

I now know that at least one 12 seed beats a 5 seed in the first round nearly every year.

And that only once have all four number 1's made it to the Final Four.

And that if I pick Duke to advance beyond the Sweet 16, I'll be sorry because they always choke.

And that you should pick upsets, but not too many.

And that if you don't know which team to pick, decide which team's mascot would beat the other team's mascot in a battle to the death. Which helps when it's the Tigers against the Huskies, but not so much when it's the Sooners against the Tar Heels.

And that if you don't want to buy (or eat) Korean BBQ for dinner, you better win.

And that when the girls won our much needed Girl's Day that first year, those sneaky, manipulative boys smiled deviously and high-fived each other as we pulled out of the driveway. Because they had played us. And because they knew that once we tasted victory, we'd be back for more.