Cheaper by the Dozen

for making the system work was Mother. Mother never threatened, never shouted or became excited, never spanked a single one of her children—or anyone else's, either.
    Mother was a psychologist. In her own way, she got even better results with the family than Dad. But she was not a disciplinarian. If it was always Dad, and never Mother, who suggested going for a ride, Mother had her reasons.
    She'd go from room to room, settling fights, drying tears, buttoning jackets.
    "Mother, he's got my shirt. Make him give it to me."
    "Mother, can I sit up front with you? I never get to sit up front."
    "It's mine; you gave it to me. You wore mine yesterday."
    When we'd all gathered in front of the house, the girls in dusters, the boys in linen suits, Mother would call the roll. Anne, Ernestine, Martha, Frank and so forth.
    We used to claim that the roll-call was a waste of time and motion. Nothing was considered more of a sin in our house than wasted time and motions. But Dad had two vivid memories about children who had been left behind by mistake.
    One such occurrence happened in Hoboken, aboard the liner Leviathan. Dad had taken the boys aboard on a sightseeing trip just before she sailed. He hadn't remembered to count noses when he came down the gangplank, and didn't notice, until the gangplank was pulled in, that Dan was missing. The Leviathans sailing was held up for twenty minutes until Dan was located, asleep in a chair on the promenade deck.
    The other occurrence was slightly more lurid. We were en route from Montclair to New Bedford, Massachusetts, and Frank, Jr., was left behind by mistake in a restaurant in New London. His absence wasn't discovered until near the end of the trip.
    Dad wheeled the car around frantically and sped back to New London, breaking every traffic rule then on the books. We had stopped in the New London restaurant for lunch, and it had seemed a respectable enough place. It was night time when we returned, however, and the place was garish in colored lights. Dad left us in the car, and entered. After the drive in the dark, his eyes were squinted in the bright lights, and he couldn't see very well. But he hurried back to the booths and peered into each one.
    A pretty young lady, looking for business, was drinking a highball in the second booth. Dad peered in, flustered.
    "Hello, Pops," she said. "Don't be bashful. Are you looking for a naughty little girl?"
    Dad was caught off guard.
    "Goodness, no," he stammered, with all of his ordinary poise shattered. "I'm looking for a naughty little boy."
    "Whoops, dearie," she said. "Pardon me."
    All of us had been instructed that when we were lost we were supposed to stay in the same spot until someone returned for us, and Frank, Jr., was found, eating ice cream with the proprietor's daughter, back in the kitchen.
    Anyway, those two experiences explain why Dad always insisted that the roll be called.
    As we'd line up in front of the house before getting into the car, Dad would look us all over carefully.
    "Are you all reasonably sanitary?" he would ask.
    Dad would get out and help Mother and the two babies into the front seat. He'd pick out someone whose behavior had been especially good, and allow him to sit up front too, as the left-hand lookout. The rest of would pile in the back, exchanging kicks and pinches under the protection of the lap robe as we squirmed around trying to make more room.
    Finally, off we'd start. Mother, holding the two babies, seemed to glow with vitality. Her ted hair, arranged in a flat pompadour, would begin to blow out in wisps from her hat. As long as we were still in town, and Dad wasn't driving fast, she seemed to enjoy the ride. She'd sit there listening to him and carrying on a rapid conversation. But just the same her eats were straining toward the sounds in the back seats, to make sure that everything was going all right. She had plenty to worry about, too, because the more cramped we became the more noise we'd make. Finally, even Dad couldn't stand the confusion.
    "What's the matter back there?" he'd bellow to Anne. "I thought I told you to keep everybody quiet."
    "That would require an act of God," Anne would reply bitterly.
    "You are going to think God is acting if you don't keep order back there. I said quiet and I want quiet."
    "I'm trying to make them behave, Daddy. But no one will listen to me."
    "I don't want any excuses; I want order. You're the oldest. From now on, I don't want to hear a single sound from