We all have things that we like. I like Chipotle burritos. Robbi likes me.

Well, August likes Mickey Mouse. We know this because he tells us all the time. Whether or not there is an obvious Mickey reference in sight, we’ll often hear him make the proclamation, whether sitting in his booster seat at dinner or opining from the back seat of the car. “I like Mickey,” he’ll say. And when we do not respond with affirmation with sufficient alacrity, he’ll say it again. And again. “I like Mickey. I LIKE MICKEY!”

One day in Alaska, he started doing this. I thought it was amusing. And endearing. But I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

It was a pose I’d never seen before. “What’s up with the kid?” I said to Robbi. She shrugged. We are used to such antics, untethered from reason or rhyme.

The performance continued, August closing his eyes while smiling with delight, thrusting one fist up into the air while curling the other down in front of his body. Clearly something was afoot, but what? What?

Of course, we needn’t have pursued the answer any further than Mickey. Glancing down, I saw that he was merely gleaning inspiration from his coloring book. As Mickey does, so does his most stalwart admirer.

I was grateful for that coloring book. It got us through many an afternoon on the tundra. I may never understand the reasons behind August’s devotion, but I see no reason to question it.

The boy likes Mickey. And I like the boy.