Fifty. 50. The big 5-0.

THE DAY STARTS pretty well. The beagle spots a coyote in the backyard -- go get ‘em, Tiger! -- and flips out, goes completely bonkers, as if answering some primeval urge to get his butt kicked. Then the toddler looks up from breakfast and sneezes scrambled eggs out his little nose. God bless. Gesundheit. Drink your juice.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” the little girl says.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, happy birthday,” says the boy.

I’m 50 the day I write this, which I guess is a minor milestone. The toddler has been wishing me happy birthday for a month now, and my friends and in-laws (there’s a difference) have been making AARP jokes for weeks. In fact, AARP’s been after me for a year already. One catalog they sent had a photo of a dead woman on the cover.

“She’s just sleeping,” my wife explained.

“She looks dead,” I said.

“She’s lying back on the beach, sleeping,” my wife explained.

Likely story.

I’m 50, and a pleasant befuddlement is setting in, almost a Champagne buzz. The other day, I went looking for the car and discovered I was sitting in it. I later answered the phone at home and announced my name, the way you do at work. Hey, I’m 50. Expect strange things.

To date, I have only four aches and pains. The youngest is 3, the oldest 23. They leave things just everywhere and won’t let me finish a sentence at the dinner table. Other times, they call me on their cellphones -- from the toilet -- to remind me how smart they are. Yo, Dad? Flush.

My doctor asks: So, is anything bothering you? I say, “Well, my kids are killing me.” Sorry, he says, Blue Cross no longer covers that.

I’m 50 and feel no different, except I prefer parties where there are plenty of chairs and have grown bored with pretty much everything except books, ballgames, funny friends and beverages that go well with tonic.

“What about dogs?” you ask.

Well, I like ‘em well enough, sure, but they’re always escaping the house, even though we’re careful around doors, and sort of slide through them sideways so the hairy little idiots can’t slip away.

When they do, I drive through the neighborhood yodeling their names and making ridiculous promises. Like, “Come home and we’ll never clean your gooey ears again.” Or, “Come home, there’s a little of that chili left from last week.”

I’m 50 and feel no different but -- this being L.A. -- I’m telling people that I’m 40 and dressing like I’m 30 and acting like I’m 15. By the way, it’s easy to act like you’re 15. You pull your pants half on, and scratch yourself a lot around the armpits and groin, which is where your brains are when you’re 15. Oh, and you drink Starbucks till your blood turns frothy as a latte.

I’m 50 and have never been more content, more upbeat, more in the moment. That’s because I put my midlife crises behind me long ago. I had my first midlife crisis when I was 8. It involved a fling with a woman who was not my wife. It ended amicably, though we no longer speak.

When I was 10, I had my second midlife crisis. I couldn’t keep a job. I was distracted in school. “Your son’s mind always seems to be somewhere else,” the teacher told my mom. “He has a mind?” my mom asked, encouraged.

Suffice it to say that I got all my midlife crises out of the way at an early age, sort of a midlife prodigy.

Which brings us to today. I’m 50 and I feel no different. Honestly, I could pass for 47.

The phone rings, first thing in the morning. It’s the lovely and patient older daughter. Apparently, she can’t wait to wish me happy birthday. Kids. Maybe I was wrong about them.

“Hello?” I say.

“Is Mom there or did she leave?” the older daughter asks.

“Actually, she’s busy making my BIRTHDAY BREAKFAST,” I say.

“Oh, it’s your birthday?”

“I’m 40,” I say.

“You’re 50,” she says.

“I am?”

“Dad, you’re 50,” she insists.

Then the stupid beagle begins to bark, at that coyote out back, and the toddler does the sneeze with the scrambled eggs. In an instant, I realize I’m 50 and filthy rich. With things that make me laugh.

And, with that, I think I’ll make it to 51.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com, or at myspace.com/chriserskine.