Archie barchie-boo, I love you.

I say that to you, Archie, every single day. I say it in a sing-songy way and it always makes you smile. I wonder sometimes when I’ll stop saying it, when I’ll find a new nickname for you that sticks and I abandon this one, this one and it’s simple, complimentary rhyme, and replace it with the new one?

I wonder sometimes if you’ll remember that I called you this when you’re older and embarrassed by your mother’s gregarious affection, if you’ll remember how I’d sing it aloud to you in the grocery store as we moved together up and down the aisles? I know that it most likely will, but I secretly hope that it won’t. Because the way you smile hugely when I sing and carry on, Archie, it makes my day every single time.

Do you know what else always pleases me, Archie? The way you always wake up smiling, not matter what. Lately you’ve been feeling under the weather, I know. I don’t know if you’ve had a virus, or a cold, or if you’re just bothered by seasonal allergies, but you’ve been snotty and coughing and not sleeping well.

Last night you ended up in my bed, again, all curled up tight against my back in your fluffy, brown blanket sleeper pajamas with the bear face embroidered on the chest. Before bed, after your bath, when your dad dressed you in those pajamas, you announced that you were a bear and you stumbled around my bedroom all straight-legged and strong-armed, growling and grr-ing as you went. I pretended as if I was afraid of you, and you chased me all the way to your room.

This morning you, early-riser that you usually are, had a hard time waking up. You stumbled around with eyes half-closed before you joined your brother and sister at the breakfast table. Even then you still weren’t ready to eat, and your dad had to pick you up and take you into the family room for more cuddling before you were willing to eat your yogurt. But even while you were still sleepy, you smiled. You smiled at me and at your dad. You hugged your brother and you hugged your sister and all the while your sleepy, half-moon eyes were like upside down parentheses book ending your big, wide smile.

Archie, people like to say that kids like you are always happy. I like to tell people who say things like that it’s not true. What I want them to know is that you, too, have to choose happiness.

And I want you to know, Archie, that even on your worst day you’ve always chosen to smile. Even on the days when you were too small to smile, you still sought to connect with your caregivers through a long stare, or by turning your face into their chests, or by wiggling into waiting arms. It’s your disposition, Archie. You engage, you captivate, your charisma attracts.

Mommas teach their children, but children teach their mommas, too. And what your endless smiles have taught me, Archie, is to endure. No matter what. If you can do it, if you can tolerate all things, bear all things, suffer all things with a buoyant heart and a happy face, then I can as well.