Over Christmas, my in-laws were visiting from Oregon, and were kind enough to give my wife and I the chance to go have an afternoon to ourselves. It was great.

They’d asked about where they could take the boys to play and we gave them directions to a local McDonalds with a large Playland that would be very easy to find. Lots of slides, warm inside, and our three-year old Tucker had been asking to go there a lot recently. Perfect.

After we’d finished our movie, we called to check in and see how things were going.

As it turns out, they’d taken the boys to McDonalds for some playtime and lunch.

As it turns out, Tucker got a Happy Meal with McNuggets.

As it turns out, he started throwing up after only one or two bites, and didn’t stop for several hours.

“Poor little guy,” I thought to myself when I heard. “He’s totally Wrestling the Clown.”

—

In 1997, I was studying classical animation at the Vancouver Film School. My classmates and I, being mostly rather poor young artists, didn’t have much money.  Eating out simply didn’t happen very often.

In fact, my mom became slightly famous and greatly loved among my classmates, because I would often come to school with enough leftovers from meals she made that I could share with a couple of the guys who were particularly in need.

The big treat for many of us was to work a little late on the occasional Wednesday, and walk over to a little local bar for 10 cent Wing Night. Two dozen wings for $2.40? DEAL!

But for many of the students, the quickest, cheapest lunch available was for them to grab something from the McDonalds just down the street.

Inevitably, the cheap, greasy food wouldn’t sit well. Let me tell you, when you are a student animator, crammed into one room with 20 or so others all sitting at your desks in close quarters drawing for 8+ hours a day, you know when someone is having, shall we say, digestive issues.

We came up with a term for this rumbly in the tumbly, woozy-headed state that would so often follow an ill-advised visit to McDonalds: Wrestling the Clown. Eventually the term came to be synonymous with eating there at all.

“Ugggggh, I feel so terrible. I’m totally Wrestling the Clown right now.”

“Dangit, I forgot my lunch. I guess I’m Wrestling the Clown today.”

“I know I’ll regret it later, but I am having a huge craving to go Wrestle the Clown right now. You coming?”

“That’s it. I am through with Wrestling the Clown. Never again.”

There came a point where I made that vow to myself, that I was done Wrestling the Clown for the foreseeable future.

It certainly didn’t last forever, but I’d say it was probably a solid two years at least that I managed to avoid eating at McDonalds entirely.

(Desperate for something to eat while attending a convention one day, and with only McDonalds available and affordable, I broke down and got myself a little personal pepperoni pizza — yes, this was so long ago that McDonalds in Canada was still selling McPizza.)

—

At the turn of the millenium, my friend Dan and I, being both roommates and co-workers, commuted together daily to the office of the tragic dot-com where we were employed as designers.

One day, Dan asked if we could go through the McDonalds Drive-Thru, so he could get some food. He inexplicably ordered a 20-piece box of McNuggets for himself.

He definitely Wrestled the Clown, and made me promise to never, ever to let him do that again. Someone should warn his wife though.

—

It’s 2012, and here I am, full-time dad to two little boys, and responsible for teaching them about good food and proper nutrition.

Although I know it’s certainly way easier to get healthier, higher-quality choices at McDonalds now, we almost never eat there. When we do, it’s usually limited to a coffee drink grabbed on a pit-stop during a long drive, at an off-the-highway McDonalds.

I don’t even really have a big problem with McDonalds itself, but . . . I just like cooking and eating good food too much to go there. Even the times when the convenience of fast-food is trumping everything else, there is always something better available.

Certainly, we make use of their indoor play areas on rainy or cool days, and one time I paid $1 for a pair of socks so that my toddler could use it.

But actually getting food? No. I haven’t really Wrestled the Clown in years.

Tucker has no notion of what a Happy Meal is, or who Ronald McDonald and the Hamburgler are. He calls it “The place with the big yellow M,” or “Old McDonalds,” or, most often, “The inside park.”

—

I don’t blame the food for Tucker getting sick that day in December. Not at all.

In fact, he not only felt better later that night, but the rest of us got sick a day later with whatever bug had manifested itself in him first. It wasn’t food poisoning, or even a disgusted reaction to chicken nuggets so clearly inferior to the ones Dada makes.

What it was, was perfect timing.

Partially because he was in the capable hands of his Grandma and Papa. Who got to deal with the mess? Someone other than me.

But mostly, it was perfect because when we drive past that McDonalds now, Tucker is most likely to say: ”Dada, that’s the Old McDonalds where I went with Grandma and Papa and then I threw up!”.

I smile a little, and hope this means he never really has to Wrestle the Clown.

Because when you Wrestle the Clown, the Clown always wins.

 Print This Post