March 2026 SOLC–Day 5
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

We’re lined up in the hallway waiting for the final dismissal call and the official end of the school day.

“Look what I found!” J. yells triumphantly, rising from the ground and holding up a penny. 

“Ooooh!” L. enthuses, edging closer. “It’s a penny! Pennies are rare now!”

“Do you know why they’re rare?” I ask.

“Because Trump stopped making them. Trump’s bad!” yet another student offers. 

“Well,” I interject, not exactly sure yet what I’m going to say and trying to formulate a response. But then, before I can continue, another student chime in.

“It’s true,” he said, his soft brown eyes looking up at me earnestly. “Trump is bad. He kills people. He does. He made this thing called ice–not like the slippery ice–and they kill people. Like they killed a soccer mom and she didn’t even do anything!” 

Some other kids nod.

A moment hangs there, and I’m not sure what to do. What to say.

These are 7 year old kids. They’re talking about the President of the United States killing people. And they clearly have heard a lot. They have details.

How do I handle this? How would you handle it?

For good or for bad, I divert. 

“Well, one big reason they stopped making pennies is because it costs more to make pennies than they are worth,” I say. 

“Oh, yeah,” L, the penny expert, says, “I heard that.”

And then their conversation moves smoothly along to other topics.

They probably won’t even remember this conversation.

I will. 

March 2026 SOLC–Day 3
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

I actually don’t love teacher reels. Ok, well, I do love some of them, but many of them have a bitter edge that I don’t appreciate. This one popped up the other day and made me laugh, so I sent it along to my colleagues. I can’t figure out how to attach the actual video here, so I took a screen shot for you, but you get the idea. Just picture a few more yapping geese coming in and out of the frame, and coming in reaaaaalllll close!

In my classroom this year, ongoing talk is not solely a morning activity. It’s a day long affair. I can definitely relate to that black lab. (And hey, my name’s Molly, so I’m practically half lab anyway*!)

Case in point: This morning after I direct the kids to get ready for recess, student after student approaches me.

“Hey, Mrs. Hogan,” J asks, “Do you wanna know my secret soccer move?”

“Of course!” I say, putting my book down and reaching for my coat.

“Ok, well, I just move my body toward the ball and then when the ball gets close…”

“Can I go in the cupboard to look for a book?” someone interrupts.

“Wah-wah-wah-wah…ball….wah-wah-wah-wah…real fast…Wah-wah-wah-wah” J. keeps talking, Charlie Brown teacher style, as I am distracted by other incoming voices and simultaneously trying to get ready to head outside.

“Yes.” I answer, shrugging into my coat, putting my hat on, trying to hear at least some of what J’s saying.

“Are you on duty today?” M. pipes up.

“Yes.” Phone in pocket.

“I wanna be a beaver when I grow up.”

What? My hand stills as I reach for my sunglasses, and I turn toward the last voice, realizing it comes from Y, and totally abandoning any effort to listen to J.

“Can I go to the Lost and Found? I think I might have left my gloves on the playground last week. I was playing on the pirate ship with….”

“Sure,” I interrupt, “Just go on down after we head out the door to the playground.”

“What did you say?” I ask Y, simultaneously wondering if we’d talked about beavers in any way, shape or form today, while knowing full well that that’s not particularly relevant anyway.

“Can you fill out my chart?” another voice chimes in, shoving a clipboard and pencil in my direction. I grasp them and start filling out the chart, keeping my eyes on Y.

“I want to be a beaver when I grow up,” she repeats. Then, she quickly pulls her lower lip in and juts her top two teeth over it–those two typical second-grade-newly-emerged-permanent-and-still-a-bit-large-for-their face teeth. “See!”

This surprises a quick huff of a laugh from me, but luckily, she doesn’t seem perturbed by it.

Before I can respond, a curious classmate chimes in, “Why do you want to be a beaver when you grow up?”

“Cause I like ’em!” she announces cheerfully, and bounces away, in a not-remotely-like-a-beaver fashion. I can only hope she’s finally getting ready for recess.

I hand back the clipboard, place my sunglasses on and move briskly toward the door. The kids who aren’t already lined up follow me, still regaling me with information, questions and life goals.

I move to the doorway and do a quick scan of the haphazard line of winter-clad students. Fortunately, even the aspiring beaver has managed to get geared up and into her place in line. It looks like we’re ready.

“Come on geese…, I mean, kids!” I call, “Let’s get going! It’s time for recess!”

We head out of the room, and I swing back in line next to J.

“Hey, J. What’s that you were saying about your soccer super power? I think I missed a few details.”

J happily regales me with full details of his soccer prowess, all the way down the hallway and out the door to the playground.

*If you’re a dog owner or lover, you might already “get” this. But in case you’re not, or you just haven’t noticed, so many dogs, and labs in particular, are named Molly!

March 2026 SOLC–Day 2
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

As we left the hospital wing where we’d been visiting my son and daughter-in-law and our new (and first! and adorable!) grandchild, we walked down the long hallway. I watched the people entering the building, knowing how lucky we were to be here for a joyful reason. Most people in hospitals are not. I scanned their faces, their postures. Who were these people here to see? What were their stories? 

As we neared the elevators to the parking garage, a very tall man and his much shorter young daughter walked toward us. She was maybe five or six years old, and bounced as she walked, her ruffled skirt bobbing about her thin legs. Although I couldn’t make out her words from a distance, I could see that she was talking non-stop. I glanced at her father, trying to read his face. Were they here to visit a new baby, like we were, or was their purpose more worrisome? Although his head was inclined slightly toward her, an ear out to catch her stream of talk, he seemed quiet, maybe even sober. Or maybe it was just the contrast with the animated child at his side? 

We passed the two of them, and not long afterward, the little girl’s high voice drifted back to us. “Daddy, do you want to skip with me?”

What would he say? I wondered. Would he do it? 

I paused for a moment, but then couldn’t resist turning around to look.

Much to my delight, there they were, still in sight, at the far end of the hallway. The man had leaned way over to hold the child’s hand. The two of them were moving together in a hopping-bobbing-up-and-down approximation of skipping. People stopped to glance and smile as they passed, but the two of them focused on each other. And on their skipping. His long gangly legs angled out from side to side, jerky and awkward. She moved with the fluidity of youth. His movements were somewhat taut, and slightly ridiculous looking. Hers were graceful and free-spirited.

Together, they skipped down the hallway toward whatever awaited them.

And together they were absolutely beautiful.

March 2026 SOLC–Day 1
A huge thank you to Two Writing Teachers for all that they do to create an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write, learn, share and grow.
http://www.twowritingteachers.org

It’s coming.

The words, or a variation of them, have been a pulse threading through my mind for at least the past week, probably more like two or three. A steady beat. Sometimes louder. Sometimes softer. Always there.

It’s coming. Soon. Are you ready?

The words have ebbed and flowed, a flutter of anxiety occasionally accompanying them. They’ve sparked an increased awareness of time evaporating. Of a deadline fast approaching. Of more things crowding into my mind. Onto my to-do lists. Into my already over-scheduled day. Into the madness of March with it’s glut of assessments, report cards, conferences, etc. (And that’s just the school stuff!) Every so often, the words have crescendoed…It’s coming. Are you ready? Are you? Soon! Soon! It’s coming… and the flutter of anxiety has roiled into a full-fledged heavy repetitive beat. Uncomfortable. Persistent.

How will I do this?

Inside my head a tentative voice reminds me this is a choice and that I’ve done it before. Many, many times.

Still, this year feels different. I’m unsettled by the world and by changes in my own life. I’m juggling a lot of commitments to myself and to others. I’m already feeling overwhelmed and dropping balls here and there.

Where will this energy come from? Where will the time to write come from? Should I even bother starting?

I remind myself I can quit. That missing a day isn’t failure. That’s what I tell myself, but I’m not sure it’s what I believe.

“I’m feeling stressed about the Slice of Life challenge,” I blurt out to my husband. “More than usually so.”

The questions spill out of me. “Am I being ridiculous to pile more into this month? Am I just needlessly adding stress?”

He turns, but before he can even answer, I continue, “But I say this every year. And I always get so much out of it.”

I know he can’t answer this for me. I’m just thinking out loud. Trying to get my feet under me.

This morning I wake. The calendar page has turned. March has arrived, and it’s time to decide.

With trepidation looming, I’m trying.

It’s here.