As if my hairline retreating faster than Napoleon’s army wasn’t enough of a reminder that I’m losing my battle against Father Time, my oldest daughter, Kinzlee, went ahead and graduated from high school.

I love her so much I attended her graduation. Which is saying something. I didn’t even attend my own graduation ceremony—I was never one to indulge in ceremonial pompous. I was told I’d regret it.

But a couple decades and change later, I stand by my decision. Not because earning a high school diploma isn’t a significant accomplishment. It’s just an odd tradition.

I can only imagine the conversations leading up to the inaugural graduation ceremony.

“How should we celebrate these kids enduring 13 years of lectures from adults?”

“We will have the principal give a long speech.”

“That sounds kind of boring.”

“OK fine. We will also read the names of every single graduate.”

“But there’s like a thousand graduates.”

“Then we will include their middle names.”

“Where will we hold this ceremony?”

“Well, it’s gonna be June and the gymnasium doesn’t have air conditioning. So let’s do it there.”

“Won’t the graduates be uncomfortably warm?”

“We will invite their friends and family as well and pack them in like sardines.”

“Um, I think their combined body heat will actually raise the temperature.”

“Damnit, Karen! Then we will make the graduates wear a strange hat and a piece of fabric over their clothing that extends the length of their entire body. Do I have to think of everything?!”

And a tradition was born.

Against all odds, however, I enjoyed my daughter’s graduation. As they rattled off names like they were reading a phone book, I was overcome with nostalgia. My mind hearkened back to when she entered my life with ensuing memories.

When I first laid eyes on her I thought she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Later I’d see pictures of her shortly after her birth—smashed nose and all—and wondered if the traumatic and nauseating experience of witnessing a birth had affected my judgment.

Later having just turned one-year-old, she learned her ABCs. I thought we were raising the next Einstein. Then she pooped her pants. Maybe Harvard wasn’t a sure thing.

She was eventually potty-trained. I’ll never forget when she exited the bathroom and excitedly told me “Dad, I made a snake.” As a writer, I was dazzled by her vivid use of imagery.

And perhaps my favorite memory was when she woke up in the middle of the night crying. Of course I used my oft-used strategy of pretending to still sleep so her mom would tend to her. When she did, I overheard my daughter say “I want my dad.” I’ve never jumped out of bed faster.

“…Hunter Jack Finlinson, Sophie Elizabeth Gardner, Kinzlee Garn…”

Just like that I was back in reality—at the graduation—albeit with cloudy vision.

As I gazed down upon my daughter walking the stage, I was again reminded my baby girl was no longer a baby. She was a high school graduate soon heading off to the University of Utah.

It’s true: they grow up too fast.

I was just a dad wondering if the good I did as a parent outweighed the bad. And while there are countless things I’d change if granted a mulligan, there’s not a damn thing I’d change about the person she’s become.

I guess that’s all that matters.