This piece originally appeared in Fatherly.
Like many single fathers, I felt fast-food shame. There were days, with back-to-back events, when my son and I didn’t have time to eat real food. And the shame stared at me — the pile of fast-food bags, nugget containers, and soda cups carpeting the passenger-seat floor.
It was often a Saturday — extracurricular hell day. It began with a guitar lesson. Then soccer. After the game, we drove to a different pitch to watch friends play. Eventually we rushed to the matinee showing of the latest Marvel movie. In the car, out of the car, repeat. Left the house at 9 a.m., returned mid-evening. No time for healthy food.
I should-ed on myself. I should have anticipated the time crunch. I should have prepared food. What was the point of a Ph.D. in psychology if I couldn’t manage the schedule and dietary needs of a kid? I was the worst.
As a psychologist, I know self-directed anger is unhealthy, and I needed to project my disapproval onto something — someone. I certainly didn’t deserve the blame for being a nutritionally incompetent dad.
During my parenting career, I raged at many things. I prayed for a premature death for Barney. I wanted The Wiggles to choke on their fruit salad. I wished Dora would get lost and stay lost. I realized my anger issues were unhealthy, pathological, and just plain sad.
With one exception.
In my parental hall of rage, one person towers above all others. He took my money, my time, and gave back almost nothing. And I know I’m not alone. Be honest. Brutally honest. Admit it.
You also hate Ronald McDonald.
If you gathered all the Nobel Prize winners and asked them to design the most annoying marketing figure for dads, what would they invent? How about a six-foot-tall, overly made-up, red-nosed spokesperson?
Ronald ain’t just a spokesperson. He’s a clown. A talking clown. A talking clown who drives a Smart car. A talking clown who drives a Smart car to stalk kids.
No wonder my profession has a name for the fear of clowns: coulrophobia.
I don’t fear clowns. As a kid, I loved one — Bozo the Clown. He had a grand prize game, handed out gifts, and gave great big hugs. In hindsight, he was probably a Class One felon, but at least he was a gift-giving one. So I have no animosity toward circus employees.
Except Ronald McDonald.
The blame finger first uncurled at Mr. McDonald when my son’s first two-word utterance was “Happy Meal.” There was nothing cheerful about that developmental milestone.
My antipathy eventually festered into a recurring dream. I see Ronnie hanging out at my kid’s playground. I scream at him, and he runs to his car. Run might be overstated for someone who wears a size-37 clown shoe. It was more of a waddle.
Anyway, we hop in our vehicles and begin a moderate-speed chase — my Odyssey pursuing his Smart car. I use the minivan’s size advantage to tip over McDonald’s car. As he scrambles out, I rush over and tackle his ruffled butt to the ground. I grab the freak by his painted neck and shake him until my money falls out of his suit.
Eventually, I wake up and return to single-fatherhood reality. The conjoined money, time, and emotional black holes of raising a kid mean I don’t have much choice.
Parenting means fast food.
And the clown knows it.
