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I used to scoff at the women who promoted Crepe Erase, so beholden were they to seeking the elusive fountain of youth. As it turns out, theirs may be the last laugh. You know that piece of Saran Wrap you painstakingly peel from your steaming bowl of microwaved, leftover tortellini, the one whose greasy, shriveled remnants you delight in casting aside without further thought? That's exactly what the loose skin on my neck looks like while I Zoom with my second graders.

I sent a group photo of our class poetry reading to my mom. "How do they look so good?!" she exclaimed, commiserating with my image concerns. "They're young," I responded as we both worked to investigate the "touch up my appearance," button on Zoom my mom had just discovered.

Not only are my students appropriately young in appearance, they are also delightfully innocent in their approach to this new type of school. Our class waits patiently in front of devices dutifully set up by parents whose furrowed brows of consternation on closeup as they troubleshoot volume concerns cause me to feel waves of parental empathy. "Can you hear me? Can you hear me now?" Still, the whole experience provides a wealth of comedy relief on my end. I mean, really, who is that peeing in the background?

There are the myriad seven-year-old boys who marvel at their own appearances in gallery view, waggling brows, turning side to side, puffing cheeks in and out, flexing biceps, saddened as their classmates pay these antics no mind. When their last-ditch efforts to garner praise by parading a motley crew of stuffed animals across the screen fail, they settle down to listen to a classmate's poem of unicorns. Afterwards, everyone unanimously agrees that magic is real. I concur. The powerful evidence is in the grid right in front of me. No one has their fingers in their nose on camera.

The enthusiastic little girl who has been looking forward to seeing her classmates all week is mortified when her sibling crashes the party, screaming and crying at frequencies only the neighbor's dog must have heard. "I'm sorry guys. I'm so embarrassed!" she says when the shrieking storm has passed. "She's only four and she doesn't like it when she can't get what she wants." Her classmates, wise to the world of younger sisters, nod respectfully, silent in their commiseration.

When did a group of ruffians who only weeks ago argued over dramatic play become so wise?

Mrs. Austin, she said I could be the five-petaled fairy princess of magical destiny, but now she's a five-petaled fairy princess of magical destiny and everyone knows you can only have one five-petaled fairy princess of magical destiny in the Land of Mystical Elderflowers!

My own daughter makes me laugh when she talks about her chorale teacher threatening at least once during every synchronous class session, "I'm muting you all!" But my sweet cherubs sit and raise their hands to speak, allowing me to call on them just as if we were still in our own comfortable classroom, sitting on the rug made of wool, a fabric print of Wassily Kandinsky's "Squares with Concentric Circles." Yes, they tear the wool apart with their fingers sometimes in an effort to drown me out, and true, they poke each other relentlessly. "You're on my square." But I know deep down they wish we were back there.

Perhaps my favorite line from the week came when a young pupil shared excitedly that her parents had gotten her a new puppy. As she beamed, holding the squirmy furball aloft in her camera, a classmate responded indignantly, "There's no getting a new puppy during a pandemic!" Well, son, I'm afraid there is.

Online teaching has broken all the barriers. My students are now, truly, a part of my family. I'm teaching lessons in a T-shirt, braided pigtails (who has time to do their hair) and three sets of eyewear (contact lenses for distance, readers for close up, and blue light frames to reduce the tech headaches). They catch me writing on the white board that hangs in my hallway, as my husband wanders by poking bunny ears over my head or photobombing the attributes of polygons.

My family are stars in my films that teach how to measure arm spans, long jumps or the different ways to bodyspell your weekly words. We're being as silly as we can in my videos and lessons to the kiddos in the hopes that each new antic will bring smiles to their ever-increasing serious faces. Yes, their faces lose their animation as the weeks progress.

"I miss you, Mrs. Austin." Hushed voices carry over my inadequate speakers. It's honestly just so hard. I think of our classroom, sitting silently and alone, my students' published books of poetry had just arrived before Pennsylvania schools closed their doors. When will these proud authors hold them in their hands?

"When are we Zooming again, Mrs. Austin?" Their words make me tear up, just as reading that last paragraph aloud made me cry. I spread my arms as I tell them that I am hugging them all. Who cares that I am digitally enveloping them in the crepey skin of my arms, my neck and my chin? Zooming has forced me to free myself from self-critique.

Did you believe that last part?

Sorry.

I, a second-grade teacher, have lied.

My Crepe-Erase package is due to arrive on Thursday.

- Vicki Austin

Vicki Austin, faculty and dorm parent at Wyoming Seminary College Preparatory School, lives with her husband, two children and 80 or so other teenage boys in Kingston, Pennsylvania. Vicki has more than 20 years of experience in many facets of education and is currently shifting her writing focus from persuasive to creative. Vicki's most recent work has been featured on the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop blog, included in the online journalsProjected LettersandWraparound Southand printed inThe Walls Between Us: Essays in Search of Truth, a Juncture publication. You can find Vicki on Twitter @VickiAustin02.