One thing has become clear over the last several days, though: I'll be the one instructing our offspring about the finer points of sports, tournaments and playoffs. There are reasons my husband isn't a basketball fan - many years and a number of hours spent concentrating on swimming, no pressure from parents to participate and be highly competitive in contact sports, not a whole lot of interest, etc. Whatever the primary reason, I was the one using polls and statistics from sports articles to complete my NCAA tournament brackets. He sometimes used the criteria of "which team is closer to the state I consider my home state" to complete his.
We went out for dinner last night (pregnancy has only increased my desire for meat, and lots of it; medium-rare to medium hamburgers sounded really, REALLY good). On the way home from the restaurant, he demonstrated his love for me by telling me I could turn on the TV to watch basketball when we got home, and that he would actually watch them with me.
Greater love hath no husband.
I can see it now: I'll be the one in front of the TV on a Saturday hollering at refs (I'm a college sports fan, be it basketball, football or wrestling); rather than asking what Daddy is yelling about, our kids will be tugging on my husband's pant leg asking what Mommy is so upset about. At least I never cultivated the taste for beer; shouting, "Honey, would you bring a cold one? I don't want to miss what's happening with the game!" across the house is a mental image of role-reversal that makes me shudder.
I do have my limits. I have never (even during college student days) painted my face for a game. -I'm not saying I wouldn't ever, but it hasn't happened yet, so there's hope...
I have seen a frightening glimpse of my 'soccer mom' potential, though. I was reading in a book for expectant parents about the Apgar test that's given to newborns shortly after birth. While reading the breakdown of the scores (responsiveness, degree of oxygenation, etc.) I felt a primal urge that our child would get a 10 out of 10. Fortunately, the rational side of my brain kicked in shortly thereafter and scolded my competitive side. I mentioned this to my doctor during my next check-up, and he started making cracks about, "What do you mean, 'blue?' Nah... that's the light in the room, Doc; you can just mark a '2' down for that oxygenation score."