You know what really frosts my flakes?
Kindergarten graduation ceremonies.
I just survived my first kindergarten graduation and I have questions.
Back in my day, graduation meant something. You spent 12 years dragging yourself through boring math classes, science labs, book reports, cafeteria mystery meat and gym class humiliation before somebody handed you a diploma.
Now? Tiny humans who still eat glue and cry because somebody touched their crayon box are marching across a stage in miniature caps and gowns like they just completed medical school.
Congratulations, little Timmy. You successfully identified the color blue and managed not to bite another student for six consecutive weeks.
What’s next? A televised ceremony for mastering Velcro shoes?
The event I attended included an awards presentation where — surprise — every child received an honor for something.
While it’s nice to recognize kids who are better than average in certain skills, does it still require 300 parents or grandparents to burn half a workday sitting in tiny folding chairs designed by medieval chiropractors.
Whatever happened to scheduling school events at reasonable times?
When I was growing up, parents got a note sent home that basically said, “The Christmas program is Thursday at 7 p.m. Show up or don’t.”
Now these schools schedule ceremonies at 9:15 on a Wednesday morning like everybody has unlimited vacation time and a chauffeur.
What really boils my biscuit are the parents who arrive an hour early to secure front-row seats for this historic academic achievement.
They don’t just bring cameras anymore. They arrive with enough recording equipment to film a nature documentary.
Tripods.
Ring lights.
Tablets.
Phones.
Backup phones.
One woman near me looked like she was preparing to livestream the moon landing.
And then comes my favorite part. The balloons.
Not normal balloons. Oh no. These people bring helium monstrosities the size of weather balloons and tie them directly to their chairs so nobody behind them can see a blessed thing.
I spent half the ceremony staring at a giant inflatable unicorn that said “Way to Go, Brayden!”
Meanwhile, every other parent is bobbing and weaving like prairie dogs trying to capture three blurry seconds of little Madison receiving her “Positive Attitude Award.”
Why doesn’t the school appoint one official photographer with an unobstructed view and simply email the photos and video to everyone afterward?
Problem solved. No balloon warfare. No aisle-blocking. No grandparents climbing over chairs like contestants on an obstacle course.
And speaking of obstacles, the security to enter the school was more intense than airport screening.
To watch 5-year-olds sing the alphabet, I had to show a driver’s license, pose for a photograph and apparently surrender my personal information to a database that will outlive civilization itself.
The lady at the desk typed so much information into that computer I thought she was processing a mortgage application or a hospital admission.
Then, after all that security theater, they handed me a visitor sticker that looked like it was printed on an old dot-matrix printer that needed a new ribbon.
Apparently the entire safety system depends on whether somebody is wearing a neon orange sticker that could be duplicated with a Sharpie and a Post-it note.
I’m Grandpa Grumpy and if this keeps up, someday there’ll be graduation ceremonies for grandfathers successfully waking up from a nap.