The day is what we make of it.

  When we were young no matter what was going on in the world our Mom would get up have coffee and eat shredded wheat with (too much) brown sugar on it.  No matter the weather outside she'd rock in her rocking chair, eat, and be there as each of the six of us woke up.  Especially in summer there was a vibe of anything might happen.  And with imagination and creativity, it was true.  The deadbeat vibe of boredom was no match.

  It would take us a few weeks to shake our robotic routine mode.  But we would work through the stress of doing something different alone and together and be free of the weight of life as a prison cell feeling.  Mom refused to let them win because whoever "they" were (making the world boring and dreary) they weren't letting God make rainbows.

  The day is what we make of it, was sometimes said out loud as each of us found something to eat and woke up into being near each other in spite of an often ugly world.  She wanted to know each person's hopes and plans for The Day and would brainstorm on what could be.  "I have an old bench that you could fix up in your workday Michael." Rock, rock, rock.  "And I saw princess dresses in the costume closet." 

  "Indian princess?" One sister would tailor the girls' plan of what to play.

  Our mom would take that in and get out of the rocking chair, put the cereal bowl in the sink, and disappear to gather.  You could hear rustling as she found all kinds of stuff Indian princesses might need to make the day that.

  We were shoved into the same bathroom.  "And don't forget to kiss," a girl already getting her tooties bullied.  "It's not about kissing," a Kavenaugh said from a foot taller and behind everyone.  "It's not?" The shortest kid asked.  Someone pointed to the sign on the outside of the bathroom door: UNISEX

  "WHAT'N HELL THAT MEAN?" A graham cracker smelling boy asked.  A taller twin sister told him not to say hell.  Don't even think that word, she warned.

  Inside the paint smelled rubbery. 

  "I might as well take a shit," Kevin said.

  "Eeew." 

  "Everybody shits." 

  "Good thing you're not in charge of my day." 

  "What's everybody doing IN THE HALLWAY?" Someone else joined the crowd gathered.  No teacher came chasing.

  "Gawd, that stinks." 

  "Wanna look at it?" 

  "Eeeew." 

  He grunted.  "Shit, shower, and shave.  Backwards today." 

  "Why do you think there's no door on the stall?  But it's a longer stall wall." 

  "Stall wall ball.  Having a stall wall ball...." He zipped up then peeked around the stall wall then went back and flushed.  Then bee-lined to the sink.  "There's soap in here for once." 

  "You been in here before?" 

  "Was a teacher smoking room." 

  "Why does your shit smell so bad?" 

  Outside with ears pressed to door, the tall Kavenaugh slapped his hand over his mouth to stop laughing loud.

 "We only eat poor people food ever again." 

  "What's that like?" 

  "Your turn." 

  "I don't have to go.  Either." 

  "What's it like?" 

  "The food?" 

  "No pooping in front of a girl DORK," a Walsh boy had dissassembled the pile spying and pushed in the door. 

  "Hiiii!" 

  "Oh sure, light up for him!" 

  "I didn't just take a dump in front of her." 

  "I was behind the stall wall." 

  "Spaghetti night?" 

  Kevin nodded.  And ordered the door shut.

  "Is that poor people food?" 

  "Why?" 

  "So I can open it for her dumbass." 

  "I shoulda tought of tat." 

  "What was it like?" Was the common question on leaving.