McDaddy

Generally speaking, I hate McDonald's. I don't like what they stand for, the abuse of their workers or the animals used for their food, the poor quality of their food, the relative expensive nature of the low-quality food, the "food-like" food, and, well, the food. Yuck-o. Often when I am driving home or traveling for work, I'll stop to get something to drink, but I could probably count on one had the times I've been to McDonald's in the last 10 years. If I'm ever tempted to eat there during a weak moment of craving grease, I'll just think about the woman who found a whole chicken head in her chicken mcpuckets.

When I was a kid, my dad worked at night, so when my sister was at school and my mom was at work, I got a lot of quality time with him. He was and is the best daddy EVER. With him I have always felt loved, cared for, and I have learned so much from being his daughter. Our morning ritual was usually the same: my dad would come home early in the morning, load me, still asleep, wrapped in pjs and a blanket, my sister, and my mom into the car. We'd drop them off, then dad would put me back into bed and he would get some sleep. Before he laid down, he would always put a bowl of dry cheerios on the kitchen table in the blue metal bowl and fill the plastic sesame street mug with milk and leave it in the fridge. He'd put the TV dial on PBS, so when I turned it on it would be on the right channel.

So each morning I'd get up, get my cereal, my milk, and go watch sesame street. Sometimes, I'd sneak into the basement, note where my sister stored her Emergency! fire helmet, then steal it out of the toy box until just before she returned from school. I'd entertain myself until I got kind of bored, then go stare at my dad while he was sleeping. One of his favorite stories to tell is waking up to two big brown eyes two inches from his face, staring at him face to face, my eyes perpendicular to his gaze.

On the days when I had nursery school, we used to walk the ten or so blocks from our house to the church that hosted my program. Some days we'd start out early and stop at McDonald's for a hamburger and milkshake. Other days we'd go early and play in the playroom together. These were times that both in that present moment and in retrospect I treasure dearly. They are some of the most dear memories of my childhood. I remember one occassion when my dad was the parent volunteer, and was responsible for bringing snack and an activity. We brought graham crackers (my father's signature snack cracker) and a Harry Belafonte album. I remember sitting there eating graham crackers, listening as Harry sang, "Day-o! Day-ay-ay-o! Daylight come and me want go home! Day! Mis-say-day Mis-say-day Mis-say-day-ay-ay-o!" I felt proud of my cool dad, and still love graham crackers to this day.

On the days when we went to McDonald's, the ritual was always the same. I'd order a hamburger and milkshake. My dad would order the same. When I got the hamburger, dad would take his buckknife and scrape off the onions and pickles onto his burger, then return the semi-naked hamburger back to me to eat. As much as my disdain for McDonald's has grown in my adult years (see Supersize Me for confirmation), my childhood memories of the place, and those times with my father, are those memories to which I return with fondness and softness in my heart.