Omg. This. Freaking. School.

It starts out simple:

“Hey! Sign this form so your son can participate in robotics.”

Cool. Love it. Robotics is awesome. I’m here for it.

Except… the form is on Google Drive.

And apparently, parents don’t deserve Google Drive access unless we have a district  email.

(Which, last I checked, we don’t. Because we’re not students. We’re the poor suckers paying for the spirit shirts and the robotics fees.)

So I do what any sane parent would do, I log in with my son’s school account and sign the form. Done. Right?

Wrong.

School: “Well how do we know you signed it if you used his email?”

Me: “Because I’m the parent. You literally told me to sign it.”

School: “But it has to come from a parent email.”

Me: “Okay, here’s mine.”

School: “Yeah… we don’t allow access to non-district emails.”

Oh. Okay. So let me just build a time machine, enroll myself as a fifth grader, and get my own district-issued Chromebook so I can sign this damn form.

I ask for a paper copy.

“No, we don’t do paper. It’s wasteful.”

Really? Because I just got fourteen flyers in my kid’s backpack about T-shirt sales, a PTO bake sale, and “Healthy Lunch Tips” printed on full-color cardstock.

At this point, my son could literally build a working robot arm, but the real engineering mystery is: how does a parent sign a permission slip in this district?

And here’s the kicker, this same kid is old enough to enlist in the military next year, but apparently not old enough to have his mother sign a form for a club he’s already been in for twelve months.

And just when I thought we’d solved the riddle of “how do you sign a form you’re not allowed to sign,” the school dropped the real kicker: all the clubs are canceled anyway.

No notice. No email. No robocall. Just a parking lot full of confused kids in robotics shirts and equally confused parents clutching iced coffees, wondering why they even bothered leaving the house.

So, to recap: the district won’t give me access to a Google form, won’t let me sign with my son’s login, won’t hand me a paper copy, and then—plot twist—cancels the entire club until the forms are magically completed.

Somewhere in the world, there’s a robot laughing at me right now. Someone send Twizzlers.