Imagine if you will a father sitting on a well-worn couch in a suburban living room, his 6^th grade son at his side, watching prime-time television in the waning daylight. Then, during an interminable commercial break, a Viagra advertisement fills the screen. Imagine then the father’s shock when, at the end of the ubiquitous ad, the son commented, “When I was younger, I didn’t know what that commercial meant. But now I know.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised by the statement for my wife and I have already exposed – no pun intended – both sons to age-appropriate matters of boy-girl relationships. Not that it was the most relaxed discussion I ever had with my children, but it was like a pizza party compared to personal experiences from my youth, which combined the misinformed observations of my peers with parental-supplied paperbacks with pencil drawings and clinical cassette tapes played while captive during a 12-hour journey to the beach.

These are important discussions and I take them seriously, but I’m not naïve to the notion that everything they learn is from mom and dad. So I’m motivated to engage the boys in honest dialogue, for no other reason than they should hear these things from us (hopefully) first.

Telling them the facts of life is one thing. Having them repeat it back to me – particularly when I’m not expecting it – is a whole different ball of wax.

“Is that so,” I replied with raised eyebrows. “What does it mean?”

My son lowered a fist to his lap and, with a thin smile, slowly extended an index finger to indicate his comprehension of Viagra’s intended effect.

“Uh, well, yeah,” I stammered, brow furrowed, scratching my head. “You, uh, you do know what it means, don’t you.”

I’m going on faith that the colors of my sons’ irises haven’t changed because I forget the last time I saw their beautiful eyes uncovered by tousled, droopy bangs. I’m not sure when it started exactly – maybe when the Jonas Brothers captured their attention – but I’m now recording intervals between their trips to the barber on a presidential election calendar.

It could be worse. They might’ve instead begged for mullets or Mohawks, but it would be nice to have a recent family photo that didn’t display two pre-teen Cousin Itts. And perish the thought of exposing their foreheads to sunlight. I once reached over and brushed the hair out of Jack’s eyes, and his immediate reaction resembled a Three Stooges character fanatically slapping at his flattened bangs.

Additionally, trying to hold their attention for anything longer than a ring tone is an exercise in futility. I once could hold respectful discussions with the boys. These days, their impassionate, monosyllabic responses convey as much reverence as a Howard Stern broadcast.

Here’s a typical conversation from our household:

Parent (smiling): “Hi, boys.”

Child (frowning): <Grunt>

Parent: “How was school today?”

Child: “Good.”

Parent: “Do you have any homework?”

Child: <Unintelligble>

Parent: “What?”

Child: “Mmmm.”

Parent: “Is that ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

Child: “Mmmm.”

Parent (exasperated): “Where’s your backpack?”

Child: <Shrugs>

Parent (examining child closely): “You need a haircut.”

Child (undergoes a disturbing possession by demonic forces): “NOOO. YOU MUST DIE!!”

Parent (unfazed): “That’s nice, dear. Dinner’s in an hour.”

I suspect the situation will improve eventually, probably when they’re older. Much, much, much older.

I’ve never been one to show embarrassment about my age. Ask me how old I am and I’ll gladly tell you. Ask me how old I feel, however, and my answer ebbs and flows like the tides, depending on the ailment or runner’s malady afflicting me at that moment.

My sons have recently developed a heightened sensitivity about matters of age, not just their own but also mine and my wife’s. Perhaps its origin can be traced to the months following my 40^th birthday, which seemed to launch a series of health troubles that emphasized the humbling truth that I’m not getting any younger.

 Two months after my milestone birthday, a string of unusually strong headaches compelled me to the doctor, who diagnosed vascular migraines, which required daily medication and a new appreciation for migraine ‘triggers’. A month later, I severely strained my right hamstring showing off while running 50-yard sprints with Will’s Cub Scout den, which required eight weeks of physical therapy and swallowing a substantial piece of humble pie. Two months after that, a nagging early morning backache deteriorated rapidly into a searing, double-you-over, give-me-Demerol-now-dammit pain that was my initiation to the misery of kidney stones.

God Bless Lana and the boys, for they must’ve thought my body was falling apart before their eyes. Besides, I’m not the greatest patient in the world, so they tempered their loving care with exasperation and hopeful anticipation for the day when Daddy would stop whining about his health problems.

Little did I know that these trials would crystallize in my sons’ minds the correlation between one’s age and medical state, shedding new light onto the “old man” term of endearment they so fondly use, with an emphasis on the adjective.

If I had a sawbuck for every time they’ve called me “old man” in the past eighteen months, I could send them both on full rides to Vanderbilt. I know they use the term lovingly with a hint of playful teasing, but they could give it a rest once in a while.

At least I have an ally in one of my boys. Judge for yourself in this recent exchange:

Will: “How old are you again?”

Me: “41.”

Jack: “That’s not old!”

Me: “Got that right.”

Will: “You get old when you get (to be) 40.”

I tell them to just wait until they turn 40, but they regard me with remote indifference, as though such possibilities are as distant as a faraway galaxy.