Conversations with Eiley: Worry

"Take a picture, Mama! Booyaaaaaah!"

Eiley and I walked home from the park in our neighborhood one evening last week. The sun dipped just below the horizon, and a light breeze finally cut through the intense heat of the day. We had run around, played tag, slid down slides, raced horses on giant springs that I'm much too heavy to ride. There had been no issue with leaving when the time came to depart. Spirits were high, and life was beautiful.

We passed a boy on the street. He looked like a young Wilmer Valderrama, and he smelled like an entire bottle of Axe Body Spray. Eiley glanced up at him, and he gave us a little smile of greeting as he passed.

We continued toward home, and Eiley's walk transitioned from a bouncy gait to your basic trudge. She looked down and started crossing her arms, a foreboding gesture in our world. I prepared myself for her to whine about leaving the park even though she'd been fine with it minutes earlier. I braced myself for her complaints about what we were having for dinner even though I hadn't even decided what that would be yet. I paused, then asked what was wrong.

"I'm just worried, Mama," she said, with the most matter-of-fact tone a four-year-old can muster.

"About what, Goose?"

"I'm worried I won't find a husband."

I want to tell you about the eloquent speech I gave that instantly stopped her concerns. I won't pretend that happened though. I've recently read a lot of blogs written by apparently super human moms who consistently dispense astoundingly articulate and thoughtful wisdom to their children. I, on the other hand, tend toward the bumbling. My genuine response went approximately thus:

"You'll find a husband, sweetheart!" Long pause. "Or maybe you won't, but you don't need to have a husband. Some people are single, and that's cool too! I mean, look at Paul, he...wait, too complicated, never mind. But if you want to be married, God will probably lead you to a nice man at the right time. Or maybe He won't, if that's not what's best for you."

Her inquisitive eyes bore into me, so I gave up and said, "You don't need to worry about that for a long time, baby. I love you! Ooh, look at the Halloween decorations over there!" I really should have started with the distraction technique.

I give myself three points for not laughing at her serious face. I give myself no points for delivery of comfort. What would you have said?