Cheaper by the Dozen

didn't know the school rules even as well as a kindergarten child. But, instead, a couple of the kids would come up shyly and tell you:
    "Gee, your old man is the cat's, all right. He's not scared of anything."
    "Yeah," you'd say.
    Sometimes you'd try to tell Dad after such a visit that his popping in like that was embarrassing.
    "Embarrassing?" he would ask a little hurt. "What's embarrassing about it?" Then he'd sort of pinch you on the shoulder and say, "Well, maybe it is a little embarrassing for me, too, Old Timer. But you've got to learn not to show it, and once you've learned that, it doesn't matter any more. The important thing is that dropping in like that gets results. The teachers lap it up."
    They did, too.
    Since Dad went to church only if one of us was being christened—in other words, about once a year—Mother had to carry the ball when it came to enrolling us in Sunday school. Dad said he believed in God, but that he couldn't stand clergymen.
    "They give me the creeps," he said. "Show me a man with a loud mouth, a roving eye, a fat rear, and an empty head, and I'll show you a preacher."
    Dad had crossed to Europe once on a liner carrying a delegation to a ministers' convention. It was on this trip that he had acquired most of his distaste for the reverends.
    "They monopolized all the conversation at dinner," he complained—and it was obvious that this was the real sin he could never forgive. "They crawled out of every argument by citing The Lord God Jehovah as their authority. I was asked on an average of eight times a day, for eight miserable and consecutive days, to come to Jesus, whatever that is. And a stewardess told me that her behind had been pinched surreptitiously so many times between Hoboken and Liverpool that she had to eat off a mantelpiece."
    Dad believed in Sunday school, though, because he thought everyone should have some knowledge of the Bible.
    "The successful man knows something about everything," he said.
    He used to drive Mother and us to Sunday school, and then sit outside in the car, reading The New York Times and ignoring the shocked glares of passing churchgoers.
    "You at least might come in where it's warm," Mother told him. "You'll catch your death out here."
    "No," Dad replied. "When I go to meet my Maker, I want to be able to tell Him that I did my praying on my own, halted by neither snow nor sleet nor icy stares, and without the aid of any black-frocked, collar-backwards cheerleader."
    "You might at least park where they won't all see you."
    "All the glares in Christendom won't force me to retreat," Dad said. "Besides, I'll bet I have half the town praying to save my soul."
    Dad told Mother that the only church he'd even consider joining was the Catholic church.
    "That's the only outfit that would give me some special credit for having such a large family," he said. "Besides, most priests whom I have known do not appear to be surreptitious pinchers."
    "Like this," said Ernestine, pinching Anne where she sat down.
    "You stop that," said Mother, shocked. And turning to Dad.
    "You're really going to have to watch the stories you tell in front of the children. They don't miss a thing."
    "The sooner they know what to expect from preachers, the better," said Dad. "Do you want to have them all eating off the mantelpiece?"
    Although Mother always claimed that she liked church, she usually was ready to go home immediately after Sunday school.
    "What's the matter, Lillie?" Dad would ask. "Stay around awhile. I'll take the children home and come back for you."
    "No, I guess not this morning."
    "You're not going to be able to get past St. Peter just on the strength of going to Sunday school, you know."
    "Well, I'd be miserable up there anyway without you," Mother would smile. "Come on. Let's go home. I'll go to church next Sunday."
    Mother did take an active part in the Sunday school work, though. She didn't teach a class, but she served on a number of committees. Once she called on a woman who had just moved to town, to ask her to serve on a fund-raising committee.
    "I'd be glad to if I had the time," the woman said. "But I have three young sons and they keep me on the run. I'm sure if you have a boy of your own, you'll understand how much trouble three can be."
    "Of course," said Mother. "That's quite all right. And I do understand."
    "Have you any children, Mrs. Gilbreth?"
    "Oh, yes."
    "Any boys?"
    "Yes, indeed."
    "May I ask how many?"
    "Certainly. I have six boys."
    "Six