My father in law's house is not huge; I'd estimate it to be about 1500 square feet of uncomplicated space. The kitchen is connected to the living room and the floorplan is absent a family room, which suits him well enough. He bought it following a lengthy visit here, when he decided he wanted to live near his daughter and grandkids; he was goaded into it a bit by my father, who really only wanted a playmate, someone to hang around the bar with. That was over a dozen years ago and he's never done much with the house. He had plans, but never got around to anything, until now. We needed a way to drive home a point to Alex, and Brad had an instant helper getting the house painted and getting the carpet ripped up.

The problem with this is that Alex is enjoying the work far too much; he wasn't terribly enthused with taping the rooms off prior to paint, but he hasn't minded at all the coats of primer followed by a plethora of color (I'm sorry, but Brad has horrible taste in color, and when we're done it's going to look like Revlon jerked off in there and unloaded on the walls.) We're 90% done and Alex shows no signs of slowing down, and is asking questions about how to install the wood floor that's next on the agenda.

While he and Brad are painting, I've been in another room pulling down drywall; Brad wants the wall moved back 5 feet to expand the master bedroom. It will effectively turn one of the other bedrooms into a walk in closet and seriously impede the resale value of the house but he seems certain he's going to die in this house, and then it will be Char and Nika's problem.

Part of the time I've been sitting on the floor, making notes about the things we need to do before we actually tear down the structure of the wall and relocate the electrical; I don't think Alex realizes I can hear them talking from the other room, and I haven't told him. I rarely get to hear him in those unguarded moments, when he's not putting up those walls that all boys do around their fathers. I've been catching snippets of conversations about girls (they have this in common: they're both dating and can't figure out the women they're with) and hearing the questions Alex has that I am not (in his mind) equipped to answer. After all, I know nothing about women, having hatched from a rock at the age of 22, whereupon I immediately married the first female I laid eyes on, and then ten years later pulled another one out of a cracker jack box.

Alex has been vaguely aware that his grandfather has had a few girlfriends over the years; he's been shielded from the sheer volume out of common sense, but there have been times when Brad has has one foot into a relationship and allowed the kids to meet the women. Multiple women equates Grandpa knows.

I've heard a few surprising things (apparently my son has an appointment to lose his virginity on his 16th birthday; good luck with that, son) and some non-news (women are frustrating) but the thing that had me rooted into place, before Alex shared his 16th birthday plans with Brad, was when he began fishing around for definitive advice on birth control.

Exactly how does one use a condom? When does it go on? Pre-lubed or not? Do they come in sizes, or what?

I stayed rooted into place, very quiet and eavesdropping, because I knew what Brad did not: Alex has been armed with the answers to every question he asked for a very long time. While he and I clash more often than we should, we have always been able to talk about this, and any time he's had a question, I've answered it. When it comes to sex, he's asked the same thing more than once, in varying degrees of interest. Early on, it was curiosity; as he's gotten older, it's preparation.

Alex was not asking his grandfather for information on condoms; he was trying to make the old man squirm, and it worked. I rarely hear Brad speechless; he can bullshit his way through anything. But he had no idea what to say to his grandson or if it was something he should even address.

He sputtered. He let Alex go on and on and sputtered while he tried to think of what to say, and in the end only managed, "Just keep it in your pants, son."

When I finally got up and went in there, Alex was damn near laughing his ass off and asked "You can tell me. How does a condom work, Dad?"

How the hell should I know? I've tried one once. And it got stuck. It was this glow in the dark...

Brad put his paintbrush down, grabbed his keys, and said he'd be back in half an hour with lunch.

It's his own fault for not painting when Alex was 4 or 5, I think.