The boys kept yelling “frank ‘n’ beans!” when they were changing clothes while we were in New York last week. Maybe they do this every time they pull down their pants at home, but if so, I don’t hear it amid the drumming, yelling and twittering of Feathers and Omelet. In the minuscule apartment, however, the frequent outbursts were quite noticeable.
Eventually I realized that “frank ‘n’ beans” refers to a boy’s privates, and that shouting it serves as a warning not to look as the boy briefly exposes his genitals to put on what I hoped was a clean pair of underwear, not the pair that had toured Chinatown the day before.
I pretended not to know what they were yelling about. It’s been a long time since I’ve wiped any butts or bathed anyone in the bathtub. In the last couple of years all three boys, even Porter, have grown quite modest. Honestly, I was quite curious as to how everyone was maturing down there, and I wanted to check out everyone’s frank and beans. I figured that as the mom, if anyone was sporting signs of sauerkraut, I had the right to know.
At first the guys were fixated on whether their brothers were trying to see their manhood, but it didn’t take them long to notice me trying to sneak a peek.
“Mom! Frank ‘n’ beans means don’t look. Give a guy some privacy.”
I found that hypocritical, as these same complainers have been known to track me to the bathroom to ask for lunch money. As the least modest person in the universe, however, I haven’t let it get to me.
The next time I came out of the bathroom I yelled, “Two miniature fried eggs,” just before I ripped off my robe to slap on my bra.**
I can’t always be one of the boys, but I can try.
** Look at the FIRST cute bra I’ve been able to purchase for my tiny tits!
It’s a Wacoal Petite and Viola at Bloomingdales in NYC helped me. It was very expensive ($48) but so worth it for my ego. All my other bras are flat triangles with straps.
Three years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Virtual Book Club #5