To Puddles, From Papa

We settled into you mom’s chair, the one she rocked you in when you were born, all 7 pounds, 7 ounces of major American manhood. And we read your baby books.

Hey Puddles, you were so perfect last night during bedtime books, still warm from your bath, your breath a milky mix of ice cream, toothpaste and some of that clover you ate in the yard.

Remember? One book featured a bunch of talking bunnies. Another had a polar bear and a mouse. The books seemed written by saints and Sunday school teachers. So boring.

Next time, maybe some Vonnegut.

But you’re not even 2, and you seem to really enjoy simple repetition. I’m your Papa, and I’m pushing 70; I enjoy simple repetition too.

So we settled into you mom’s super-comfy chair, the one she rocked you in when you were born, all 7 pounds, 7 ounces of major American manhood.

And we read your baby books.

I could smell the day’s sunshine in your hair. My hand fell on your plump bare knee. You could probably use a little more gym work, buddy, maybe some kettle bells, more resistance training.

Not yet though.

For you, a fitness plan is roughhousing on the couch with your big sis or lounging in front of the TV with the family dog.

That’s good too, Puddles. I think that’s probably what Schwarzenegger did at your age, besides lifting cars.

FYI, we all had dinner at the overpriced, underseasoned Mexican joint, the one you love. As you know, I hate Mexican food. I always eat too much,

Anyway, we asked what drinks they had for kids. The server recommended tequila.

When the food arrives, you eat maybe half a molecule. Your sister eats a proton, a couple of neutrons. I promised you dessert anyway.

I should regret that but I don’t.

Because you approach a $6 cup of vanilla ice cream the way Ted Williams approached the plate at Fenway, the way Bach approached a sonata in Leipzig.

You make it yours.

A gleam comes to your eye, a legend’s quiet confidence. Seriously, you can eat ice cream with the best of them. One day, I predict you will be a first-ballot selection to the Ice Cream Hall of Fame. .

When we finish the ice cream, we wheel you six blocks toward home.

Please tell me, little dude, what’s happened to baby strollers? When your mom was young, we had these umbrella strollers, so light and slight. You could slip one in your jeans pocket, like a set of keys.

Today’s strollers are on steroids. They’re big rigs. We could’ve fit you, your sister and 15 Teamsters in that stroller. We could’ve mixed concrete and poured a highway.

Whatever. It’s a very fine stroller. I mean, what do you expect for 2,000 bucks?

In time, I’m sure your Papa’s calves will recover. And surgeons can probably rebuild my ruined back.

After your bath, you run wet and naked through the living room, to the delight of adults who are only wet and naked on birthdays and anniversaries.

You remind all of us how glorious it is to be at peace with your bod. Your tummy is your trophy. It is glorious and full of ice cream. Far as I could tell, you were a very happy and contented man. You were Bacchus.

And then we read your storybooks, just as I do with your sister, just as I once did with your mom.

It was, gotta confess, as magnificent a 20 minutes as I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve been around this rock a few thousand times.

We read four books, the themes of which I have no idea, but they were full of love and tolerance and all sorts of other outdated concepts. There were no fight scenes, no drug use, not a single broken heart.

What lies are your parents feeding you? In what world, will you thrive after hearing such softness?

Goodnight stars,

Goodnight air,

Goodnight noises everywhere …

The soothing rituals continued as we slipped you in your so-called “sleep sack,” which is this toga thing your mom makes you wear. Seems like a straitjacket. I could probably use one myself.

Toga!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Then we went over the alphabet — twice. After that, came your bedtime bottle, which you drank — chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug.

Point is, if you ever need a grandpa to put you to bed again, I’m your guy. I think your mom has my email. I’m also “in the book,” as they say.

Honestly, there is no book, but if you want to find anything about my past marriages, my checkered career, or that time the bank almost took the house, it’s all available right there online.

Or just call.

G’night, Puddles.

Next week: Celebrating summer’s splash zones.

Happy Fourth, everyone!