Hey, Puddles, seems that you shine even when the sun doesn’t. (photo by Chris Erskine)

All babies are royalty.

We fuss over my grandson, pet him as you would a kitten, pat his knee, brush our fingertips against his cheek. It’s like tickling a poem.

Listen, I’ll measure my remaining days in cups of coffee. In my spare time, I’ll plan future family getaways, knowing the ebullient grandson, Puddles, will be shining even when the sun isn’t.

The takeaway: Tough times are easier when you surround yourself with smooth, milky youth.

Sure, at this stage of my life, I can tear a shoulder muscle just from pulling on a sweatshirt or stepping over a sleeping dog.

The other morning, White Fang knocked me onto the gravel hiking trail, my second near-fatal dog wipeout. As you may remember, my daughter’s dog (Penny Laine) clipped me in the park only weeks before, barreling me into the wet grass. You know how overloading a suitcase stresses the zipper? That’s what happened to my left schnitzel, my longest, most-vulnerable tendon. Owe.

I’m starting to wonder: Are these trip-and-falls trend? Will my dogs now blindside me every chance? Or, were those phantom falls that just happened to coincide within weeks of each other?

I can’t wait to quiz my physician, Dr. Steve, who operates a fine medical practice out of the trunk of his aging red Eldorado, while smoking a cigar (think Walter Matthau). No doubt, he’ll recommend I relax and keep my wits about me.

“Why start now?” I’ll say.

Honestly, I only fake composure. Suzanne often compliments me on my public speaking, another time I fake composure.

Guess I’m fortunate that speeches don’t undo me the way they do some other folks. Before a gig, I always think to myself, what’s the worst that could happen? Ridicule? Public humiliation? Could they storm the stage and flog me for telling that silly homecoming story for the hundredth time?

“And then Rapunzel says, it’s gonna be OK, Mom. My boyfriend’s been taking Viagra all day…”

So, far, none of that bad stuff has happened during speeches. Obviously, I’ve been quite lucky.

In related news, I just read that Viagra helps sustain fresh-cut flowers. I thought to myself: “Hmmmm, I wonder if it has other uses?”

I mean, florally speaking. I’ll Google it and get back to you.

Let’s move on…

Did you know it takes two hours for a snowflake to fall from a cloud to the ground?

I read that the other day as well, picturing one of those fat, furry Sierra flakes, falling from 20,000 feet, tumbling, turning, preening — blowing west, then south, then sideways — finally landing on the eyelash of Puddles while I carry him into a donut shop in Mammoth Lakes.

Only 6 months old, my grandson has never seen snow. He’s never even seen “The Dirty Dozen,” his papa’s favorite movie and the greatest love story of all time.

Puddles has never surfed. He’s never had his heart broken. He’s never sung along to Elton John or Led Zepplin at 2 in the morning as the keg runs dry.

He’s never dodged a kiss, quaffed an oyster, threaded a pass between the linebacker’s hands for a last-second score.

He’s never double-dribbled in a key moment. He’s never dropped trou. He’s never feathered an 8-iron into the middle of a sand trap. He’s never tossed a dirty dish in the sink and – as his Uncle Smartacus does – thinks “I’ll get it in the morning. Or Dad will.”

In my spare time, I’m making Puddles a bucket list of all he needs to accomplish.

Item 46: Watch the blue algae curl through a wave on Dockweiler Beach one night, a sandy blonde on one side, a sandy dog on the other.

Item 47: Build a bonfire.

Item 48: Catch a rainbow trout.

Item 49: Drive up to Mt. Wilson. Listen to the stars breathe.

Hey Puddles, nothing races by faster than life.

But the truly beautiful things – the hum of the stars, the waltz of the snowflakes – seem kind of timeless and slow and prayerful. Just as baseball is timeless and slow and prayerful. And re-painting an old rocking chair. Or parenthood itself.

In tricky times, your inclination might be to outpunch your opponent, fight fire with fire, go faster than the next guy, get back on the %*\}$#@#$%#’ing horse.

That’s fine, Puddles. That’s good and necessary and just. Life has more drama than the House of Hanover.

But life is other things too.

Sometimes it’s a poem. Sometimes you’re the poem.

And sometimes you’re not.

This golden goof, this murderess, clipped me in the schnitzel during a morning walk. (photo by Chris Erskine)

For past columns, please go to ChrisErskineLA.com