What Cindy Crawford Wouldn't Do

For over two weeks my dear husband has suffered from a back injury. While shoveling snow he felt a twinge but had to rush off to work so he ignored it. Then, as the day wore on, he became stiff and couldn't find comfort sitting in his chair or standing at his desk. Bent over like an old arthritic man, he finally let his boss talk him in to going home early. First he had to navigate several city blocks to get to his car. Along the route he said he stopped a few times to lean on parking meters. Getting into his car was a nightmare of pain. Something was horribly wrong.

So home he came and on his back or crawling on hands and knees were the positions he assumed for a couple of days. Then the slow road to recovery seemed to be in effect, but low and behold he tweaked (not twerked) his back again and was flat on the floor just as before.

Though crazy uncomfortable and unable to find much relief, he still maintained his sense of humor. I think this was for my benefit more than his. He knew I was going to worry and stress and overdo but apologize that I wasn't doing enough. He said he was just faking. He said he wanted to view the world the way our son does, from the floor. He said he just wanted my sympathy. He said it was because Cindy Crawford was going to be at his office and he'd always had this huge crush on her so it was fate that he hurt his back and couldn't be at work when she came by.

OK, he had me going on the last one. She what? No, he was only kidding. But then I found out of his admiration for the super model. Really? Oh it's the mole, the mole! Right. Then we had to figure out how old she is now—48 with two kids. Well, still not knowing much about her even with my internet search—because really, who can get to know a person from Google alone—I decided to let my husband know just how lucky he was to have me instead of Ms. Crawford.

Cindy wouldn't massage your muscles, bring you mocha, adjust the pillows under your knees, bring you ice and a heating pad, and read Harry Potter to you, I told him. She would probably go shoe shopping. In Paris. (Sorry, Ms. Crawford, if you aren't really into shoes or France. I realize I'm making huge assumptions here). How would you ever cope without me?

Wait a second. Luke got me. He knew I was being too down on myself and needed encouragement that I am doing the best I can at being a loving wife and mother. And the best I can is just what my family needs.

I've got to tell you that the month of February, since my last blog post, has been incredibly hard. I'm wiped out by 8:00 pm every day. I try to sit back and look at my life through binoculars and say, Wow, how blessed is that girl? But whenever I set those binoculars down I wallow again. I hate that I do. But what my husband keeps telling me, what God is whispering to me, is that we will get through this, it could be worse but we are really quite blessed, I am doing what I can with love in my heart and for that my family is grateful, and I am not alone. And years from now when Luke and I are old and our son is far from home, I will remember these days with fondness and love. I know that I will, because we are together. I will wish for these days.

The bottom line is would I rather be living alone in my shoebox apartment still, able to do as I please, sleep when I want, eat when I want; or would I like to be here, with a husband who daily tells me he loves me and shows it in just the right ways and a baby boy who lights up my mornings after those dark and stormy nights of little sleep? My heart is here, and I love to care for my boys.

And I don't much care for shoe shopping but I do love Paris; however, I'll leave it to Ms. Crawford. The truth is, at home with her family—in sickness or health—is probably the only place she'd rather be as well.

Luke really wasn't in love with Cindy. It was all about the Pepsi!