Cheaper by the Dozen (Cheaper by the Dozen, #1)

by Frank B. Gilbreth Jr.

One reason he had so many children—there were twelve of us—was that he was convinced anything he and Mother teamed up on was sure to be a success.

It was regimentation, all right. But bear in mind the trouble most parents have in getting just one child off to school, and multiply it by twelve. Some regimentation was necessary to prevent bedlam.

Some people used to say that Dad had so many children he couldn’t keep track of them. Dad himself used to tell a story about one time when Mother went off to fill a lecture engagement and left him in charge at home. When Mother returned, she asked him if everything had run smoothly. “Didn’t have any trouble except with that one over there,” he replied. “But a spanking brought him into line.” Mother could handle any crisis without losing her composure. “That’s not one of ours, dear,” she said. “He belongs next door.”

Really, it was love of children more than anything else that made him want a pack of his own. Even with a dozen, he wasn’t fully satisfied. Sometimes he’d look us over and say to Mother: “Never you mind, Lillie. You did the best you could.”

Like most of Dad’s ideas, the assembly call, while something more than a nuisance, made sense. This was demonstrated in particular one day when a bonfire of leaves in the driveway got out of control and spread to the side of the house. Dad whistled, and the house was evacuated in fourteen seconds—eight seconds off the all-time record.

We’d sit there memorizing every word, and Dad would look at Mother as if he was sure he had married the most wonderful person in the world.

“What do only children do with themselves?” we’d think. Dad would lean back against the seat and cock his hat on the side of his head. Mother would snuggle up against him as if she were cold. The babies were asleep now. Sometimes Mother turned around between songs and said to us: “Right now is the happiest time in the world.” And perhaps it was.

THE DAY THE UNITED States entered the first World War, Dad sent President Wilson a telegram which read: “Arriving Washington 7:03 P.M. train. If you don’t know how to use me, I’ll tell you how.”

“One thing I can’t get over,” Anne said. “They really hate to see us go. Imagine! They’re crying just as hard as we are.”

“Daddy, dear?” he said. “Daddy, dear? Well! I guess I ought to send you kids to California every summer.” “Not with me, you don’t,” Mother put in. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed seeing the dear folks. But the next time, you take the children out West, and I’ll go to war.”

“If that’s what you want,” Dad said, “we’ll plan it that way. Excuse me a minute while I make a note of it.” He took out his memorandum book and solemnly wrote: “Don’t forget to have six boys and six girls.” They had a dozen children, six boys and six girls, in seventeen years. Somewhat to Dad’s disappointment, there were no twins or other multiple births. There was no doubt in his mind that the most efficient way to rear a large family would be to have one huge litter and get the whole business over with at one time.

With four girls, Dad was reconciled to his fate of being the Last of the Gilbreths. He was not bitter; merely resigned. He kept repeating that a dozen girls would suit him just fine, and he made hearty jokes about “my harem.” When visitors came to call, Dad would introduce Anne, Mary, and Ernestine. Then he’d get Martha out of her crib and bring her into the living room. “And this,” he’d say, “is the latest model. Complete with all the improvements. And don’t think that’s all; we’re expecting the 1911 model some time next month.”

“Come on, it’s water over the dam,” Dad shrugged. “Let’s forget it. Let’s go up to Coffin’s after all and get those sodas. I’m ready for a double chocolate soda. What do you say?” Under such relentless arm-twisting, we finally gave in and allowed ourselves to be taken to Coffin’s.

His theories on social poise, although requiring some minor revision as the family grew larger, were constant to the extent that they hinged on unaffectation.

A poised, unaffected person was never ridiculous, at least in his own mind, Dad told us. And a man who didn’t feel ridiculous could never lose his dignity. Dad seldom felt ridiculous, and never admitted losing his dignity.

The part of the theory requiring some revision was that guests would feel at home if they were treated like one of our family. As Mother pointed out, and Dad finally admitted, the only guest who could possibly feel like a member of our family was a guest who, ...

Experience has established the fact that a person cannot move from a small, peaceful home into a family of a dozen without having something finally snap. We saw this happen time after time with Dad’s stenographers and with the cooks who followed Mrs. Cunningham. In order to reside with a family of a dozen it is necessary either (1) to be brought up from birth in such a family, as we were; or (2) to become accustomed to it as it grew, as Dad, Mother, and Tom Grieves did.

The convent had become one of Dad’s most frequently used threats. He had even gone so far as to write away for literature on convents, and he kept several catalogues on the tea table in the dining room, where he could thumb through them and wave them during his arguments with the older girls.

“That takes a load off my mind,” said Dad. “It used to be that a father promised his son a gold watch if he didn’t smoke until he was twenty-one. Now the kids get a raccoon coat as a matter of routine if they manage to stumble through high school.”

“Of course we trust you,” Dad said. “I know you’ve been brought up right. I trust all my daughters. It’s that cheerleader I don’t trust. Now, you might as well make up your mind to it. Either I go, or you don’t.”

“Sometimes,” Anne said slowly, “it’s hard to be the oldest. When I think of Ernestine, Martha, Lillian, Jane—they won’t have to go through any of this. I wonder if they’ll just take things for granted, or whether they’ll appreciate what I’ve suffered for them.”

“Some simpleton with pimples in his voice wants to speak to Ernestine,” he grumbled to Mother when he answered the phone. “I’ll swear, I’m going to have that instrument taken out of here. These tea hounds are running me crazy. I wish they’d sniff around someone else’s daughters for awhile, and give us some peace.”

“You caught me,” Scales told Anne. “I went for you, hook, line, and sinker. What are you going to do with me?” Anne was touched by this show of slavish devotion. “What am I going to do with you?” she echoed dramatically. “Throw him back,” Dad roared from the other side of the office window. “He’s too small to keep.”

The message said, “All My Fondest Thoughts Are of You, Dearest Ernestine.” He couldn’t bring himself to give the picture to her personally, so he wrapped it up, insured it for one hundred dollars, and sent it through the mail. Ern kept it hidden in a bureau drawer, but no hiding place in our house was any too safe, and the junior-high-school contingent finally discovered it, memorized it, put it to music, and learned a three-part harmony for it.

The bad heart was one of the principal reasons for Dad’s home instruction programs. It was also why he had organized the house on an efficiency basis, so that it would operate smoothly without supervision; so that the older children would be responsible for the younger ones. He knew a load was going to be thrown on Mother, and he wanted to lessen it as much as he could.

Now, suddenly, she wasn’t afraid anymore, because there was nothing to be afraid of. Now nothing could upset her because the thing that mattered most had been upset. None of us ever saw her weep again.