Cheaper by the Dozen (16 page)

Having fathered one son, Dad took it pretty much for granted that all the rest of his children would be boys.

"The first four were just practice," he'd say to Mother, while glaring with assumed ferocity at the girls. "Of course, I suppose we ought to keep them.

They might come in handy some day to scrub the pots and pans and mend the socks of the men folk. But I don't see that we need any more of them."

The girls would rush at him and Dad would let them topple him over on the rug. Martha, using his vest pockets for fingerholds, would climb up on his stomach and the other three would tickle him so that Martha would be joggled up and down when he laughed.

Number Six was born in Providence, where the family had moved in 1912. As Dad had assumed, the new addition was a boy. He was named William for Mother's father and one of her brothers.

"Good work, Lillie," Dad told Mother. But this time there was no elaborate praise and his tone of voice indicated that Mother merely had done the sort of competent job that one might expect from a competent woman. "There's our first half-dozen."

And when his friends asked him whether the new baby was a boy or a girl, he replied matter of factly: "Oh, we had another boy."

Dad hadn't been there during the delivery. Both he and Mother agreed that it didn't help matters for him to be pacing up and down the hall, and Dad's business was placing more and more demands upon his time.

Mother had her first half-dozen babies at home, instead of in hospitals, because she liked to run the house and help Dad with his work, even during the confinements. She'd supervise the household right up until each baby started coming. There was a period of about twenty-four hours, then, when she wasn't much help to anybody. But she had prepared all the menus in advance, and the house ran smoothly by itself during the one day devoted to the delivery. For the next ten days to two weeks, while she remained in bed, we'd file in every morning so that she could tie the girls' hair ribbons and make sure the boys had washed properly. Then we'd come back again at night to hold the new baby and listen to Mother read
The Five Little Peppers.
Mother enjoyed the little Peppers every bit as much as we, and was particularly partial to a character named Phronsie, or something like that.

When Dad's mother came to live with us, Mother decided to have Number Seven in a Providence hospital, since Grandma could run the house for her. Six hours after Mother checked into the hospital, a nurse called our house and told Dad that Mrs. Gilbreth had had a nine-pound boy.

"Quick work," Dad told Grandma. "She really has found the one best way of having babies."

Grandma asked whether it was a boy or a girl, and Dad replied: "A boy, naturally, for goodness sakes. What did you expect?"

A few moments later, the hospital called again and said there had been some mistake. A Mrs. Gilbert, not Gilbreth, had had the baby boy.

"Well, what's
my
wife had?"Dad asked. "I'm not interested in any Mrs. Gilbert, obstetrically or any other way."

"Of course you're not," the nurse apologized. "Just a moment, and I'll see about Mrs. Gilbreth." And then a few minutes later. "Mrs. Gilbreth seems to have checked out of the hospital."

"Checked out? Why, she's only been there six hours. Did she have a boy or a girl?"

"Our records don't show that she had either."

"It's got to be one or the other," Dad insisted. "What else is there?"

"I mean," the nurse explained, "she apparently checked out before the baby arrived."

Dad hung up the receiver. "Better start boiling water," he said to Grandma. "Lillie's on the way home."

"With that new baby?"

"No." Dad was downcast. "Somebody else claimed that baby. Lillie apparently put off having hers for the time being."

Mother arrived at the house about half an hour later. She was carrying a suitcase and had walked all the way. Grandma was furious.

"My goodness, Lillie, you have no business out in the street in your condition. And carrying that heavy suitcase. Give it to me. Now, get upstairs to bed where you belong. A girl your age should know better. What did you leave the hospital for?"

"I got tired of waiting and I was lonesome. I decided I'd have this one at home, too. Besides, that nurse—she was a fiend. She hid my pencils and notebook and wouldn't even let me read. I never spent a more miserable day."

Lill was born the next day, in Dad and Mother's room, where pencils and notebooks and proofs were within easy reach of Mother's bed.

"I had already told everybody it was going to be a boy," Dad said, a little resentfully. "But I know it's not your fault, and I think a girl's just fine. I was getting a little sick of boys, anyway. Well, this one will be named for you."

The older children, meanwhile, were becoming curious about where babies came from. The only conclusion we had reached was that Mother always was sick in bed when the babies arrived. About four months after Lill was born, when Mother went to bed early one night with a cold, we were sure a new brother or sister would be on hand in the morning. As soon as we got up, we descended on Dad and Mother's room.

"Where's the baby? Where's the baby?" we shouted.

"What's all the commotion?" Dad wanted to know. "What's got into you? She's right over there in her crib." He pointed to four-month-old Lill.

"But we want to see the
latest
model," we said. "Come on, Daddy. You can't fool us. Is it a boy or a girl? What are we going to name this one? Come on, Daddy. Where have you hidden him?"

We began looking under the bed and in a half-open bureau drawer.

"What in the world are you talking about?" Mother said. "There isn't any new baby. Stop pulling all your father s clothes out of that drawer. For goodness sakes, whatever gave you the idea there was a new baby?"

"Well, you were sick, weren't you?" Anne asked.

"I had a cold, yes."

"And every time you're sick, there's always a baby."

"Why, babies don't come just because you're sick," Mother said. "I thought you knew that."

"Then when do they come?" Ern asked. "They always came before when you were sick. You tell us, Daddy."

We had seldom seen Dad look so uncomfortable. "I've got business in town, kids," he said. "In a hurry. Your Mother will tell you. I'm late now." He turned to Mother. "I'd be glad to explain it to them if I had the time," he said. "You go ahead and tell them, Lillie. It's time they knew. I'm sorry I'm rushed.You understand, don't you?"

"I certainly do," said Mother.

Dad hurried down the front stairs and out the front door. He didn't even stop by the dining room for a cup of coffee.

"I'm glad you children asked that question," Mother began. But she didn't look glad at all. "Come and sit here on the bed. It's time we had a talk. In the first place, about the stork—he doesn't really bring babies at all, like some children think."

"We knew that!"

"You did?" Mother seemed surprised. "Well, that's fine. Er—what else do you know?"

"That you have to be married to have babies, and it takes lots of hot water, and sometimes the doctor does things to you that make you holler."

"But not very loud?" Mother asked anxiously. "Never very loud or very often. Am I right?"

"No, never very loud or very often."

"Good. Now, first let's talk about flowers and bees and..."

When she was through, we knew a good deal about botany and something about apiology, but nothing about how babies came. Mother just couldn't bring herself to explain it.

"I don't know what's the matter with Mother," Anne said afterwards. "It's the first time she's ever kept from answering a question. And Daddy went rushing out of the room like he knew where something was buried."

Later we asked Tom Grieves about it. But the only reply we elicited from him was to: "Stop that nasty kind of talk, you evil-minded things you, or I'll tell your father on you."

Dad assumed Mother had told us. Mother assumed she had made her point in the flowers and bees. And we still wondered where babies came from.

Fred was born in Buttonwoods, Rhode Island, where we spent a summer. A hurricane knocked out communications and we couldn't get a doctor. A next-door neighbor who came over to help became so frightened at the whole thing that she kept shouting to Mother:

"Don't you dare have that baby until the doctor comes."

"I'm trying not to," Mother assured her calmly. "There's no use to get all excited.You mustn't get yourself all worked up. It's not good for you. Sit down here on the side of the bed and try to relax."

"Who's having this baby, anyway?" Dad asked the neighbor. "A big help you are!"

He departed for the kitchen to boil huge vats of water, most of which was never used.

Fred, Number Eight, arrived just as the doctor did.

Dan and Jack were born in Providence, and Bob and Jane in Nantucket. Dan and Jack came into the world in routine enough fashion, but Bob arrived all of a sudden. Tom Grieves had to pedal through Nantucket on a bicycle to find the doctor. Since Tom was in pajamas, having been routed from his bed, most of the island knew about Bob's birth. Once again, it was a case of the baby and the doctor arriving simultaneously.

By that time, all the family names for boys had been exhausted. The names of all the uncles, both grandfathers, and the four great-grandfathers had been used. Great-uncles were being resurrected from the family Bible and studied carefully.

"Now let's run over the names of the Bunker men again," Dad said, referring to Grandma Gilbreth's brothers. "Samuel? Never could tolerate that name. Nathaniel? Too bookish. Frederick? We got one already. Humphrey? Ugh. Daniel? We got one. Nothing there."

"How about the middle names?" Mother suggested. "Maybe we'll get an idea from the Bunkers' middle names."

"All right. Moses? Too bullrushy. William? We got one. Abraham? They'd call him Abie. Irving? Over my dead body, which would be quite a climb."

"What was your father's name again?" Mother asked.

"John," said Dad. "We got one."

"No, I know that. I mean his middle name."

"You know what it was," said Dad. "We're not having any."

"Oh, that's right," Mother giggled. "Hiram, wasn't it?"

Dad started thumbing impatiently through the Bible. "Jacob? No. Saul? Job, Noah, David? Too sissy. Peter? Paul? John? We got one."

"Robert," Mother said. "That's it. We'll call him Robert."

"Why Robert? Who's named Robert?" Dad looked over the top of his glasses at Mother, and she reddened.

"No one in particular. It's just a beautiful name, that's all. This one will be Robert."

Dad started to tease. "I knew you had a strange collection of beaux during your college days, but which one was Robert? I don't believe I remember your mentioning him. Was he the one whose picture you had with the blazer and mandolin? Or was he the one your sisters told me about who stuttered?"

"Stop it, Frank," said Mother. "You know that's ridiculous."

We took our cue from Dad. "Oh, Mother, Rob-bert is such a beautiful name. Why didn't you name me Rob-bert? May I carry your books home from college, Lillie, dear? Why, Rob-bert, you do say the
nicest
things. And so clever, too."

Dad, who knew that Mother's favorite poet was Browning and suspected where the Robert came from, nevertheless bunched the fingers of his right hand, kissed their tips, and threw his hand into the air.

"Ah, Robert," he intoned, "if I could but taste the nectar of thy lips."

"When you're all quite through," Mother said coldly, "I suggest we have a vote on the name I have proposed. And when it comes to discussing old flames, it might be borne in mind that that is a game two can play. I recall—"

"We wouldn't think of blighting any school girl romance, would we, kids?" Dad put in hastily. "What do you say we make it 'Robert' unanimously?"

We voted and it was unanimous.

Bob, Number Eleven, made the count six boys and five girls. There was considerable partisanship among the family as to the desired sex of the next baby. The boys wanted to remain in the majority; the girls wanted to tie the count at six-all. Dad, of course, wanted another boy. Mother wanted to please Dad, but at the same time thought it would be nice to have a girl for her last child.

Number Twelve was due in June, 1922, and that meant we would be in Nantucket. Mother had vowed she wasn't going to have another baby in our summer house, because the facilities were so primitive. For a time, she debated whether to remain behind at Montclair and have the baby at home there, or whether to go to Nantucket with us and have the baby in a hospital. Finally, with some foreboding because of her previous experience in Providence, she chose the latter alternative. Jane, Number Twelve, was born in the Nantucket Cottage Hospital.

Mother's ten days in the hospital were pure misery for Dad. He fidgeted and sulked, and said he couldn't get any work done without her. Dad's business trips to Europe sometimes kept him away from home for months, but then he was on the go and in a different environment. Now, at home with the family where he was accustomed to have Mother at his side, he felt frustrated, and seized every opportunity to go down to the hospital and visit.

His excuse to us, when we complained we were being neglected, was that he had to get acquainted with his new daughter.

"I won't be gone long," he'd say. "Anne, you're in charge while I'm away." He'd jump into the car and we wouldn't see him again for hours.

He had never taken such care with his dress. His hair was smoothed to perfection, his canvas shoes a chaste white, and he looked sporty in his linen knickers, his belted coat with a boutonniere of Queen Anne's Lace, and his ribbed, knee-length hose.

"Gee, Daddy, you look like a groom," we told him.

"Bride or stable?"

"A bridegroom."

"You don't have to tell me I'm a handsome dude," he grinned. "I've got a mirror, you know. Well, I've got to make a good impression on that new daughter of mine. What did we name her? Jane."

At the hospital, he'd sit next to Mother's bed and discuss the work he'd planned for the autumn.