My Kids Ain’t Got McDonalds Money

Because I Refuse to Go Broke to Prove I’m a Good Mom.

6–9 minutes

Let me go ahead and say it loud for everybody to see — my kids ain’t got McDonald’s money. And before ya’ll get on here clutching pearls, no, it ain’t because I’m too broke to buy them McDonald’s.

Somewhere along the way, motherhood got hijacked by capitalism. Now everybody’s out here competing to see who can overextend themselves the fastest. Every “no” is portrayed as neglect, every boundary as deprivation, and every parent who dares to protect their peace is labeled “mean,” “cheap,” or “doing too much.”

Tuh. I’ll be that.

But let’s bffr.

I’m not going broke to prove I’m a good mom.

I’m not running myself ragged trying to fund every fast-food craving, school fundraiser, or field trip that pops up with a two-day notice. I love myself too damn much to continue to model burnout as normal.

I saw a post in a parenting group that said, “My kids will always have Roblox money, book fair money, McDonald’s money, field trip money, gift shop money — and if I don’t have it, I’ll find a way.”

And listen. I get the heart behind it. We all want our kids to have magic and money and everything else we didn’t have. But I need us to be 100% realistic for a pair of seconds.

Because here’s the truth ya’ll are quite possibly being willfully ignorant to…

Money ain’t money-ing like it used to money.

Groceries are through the roof, rent is criminal, ain’t a single raise in pay and somehow schools keep finding new reasons to bring food trucks and milkshakes to the yard that we have to pay for.

We’re all out here stretching the same dollar between gas, groceries, field trips, therapy, and a little self-care we probably won’t even get to enjoy.

Book fairs used to be simple.
Field trips used to be affordable.
McDonald’s used to be a treat, not a line item on your monthly budget.

Now everything — and I do mean everything — costs money. Roblox, class parties, t-shirts, sports fees, yearbooks, book fairs, “spirit week” costumes, the works.

And then society whispers, “If you don’t give them every single thing, you’re failing as a parent.”

No. What’s failing us is a system where childhood has been turned into an economy, and parents are expected to hustle themselves into exhaustion just to keep up.

In my house, I’m not throwing endless money at things just because everyone else is. My kids don’t get Robux from me; they better phone a Grandparent. Not because I don’t love them, but because I want to teach them value and how to use their village.

My kids are blessed with all four Grandparents.

Use what you got to get what you want.

Amen? Amen.

They get McDonald’s when their grandmothers slip them money, or DoorDash when their grandfathers hit that Cash App, but I’m absolutely not prioritizing fast food in our budget.

Field trips? Yes, within reason — but they have to give me notice. Book fairs? Absolutely, but with a limit. Because let’s keep it a bean: I can grab the same book on ThriftBooks for a fraction of the price, and most of the stuff they sell? I can make. And I got us all library cards. I’m not buying a book unless it’s not available at the library — and only after they’ve read it and said, “Yeah, I might reread that a few times.” Then, sure, let’s buy it.

I want my kids to have beautiful memories, but I also want them to understand balance, boundaries, and intentional living. I refuse to burn myself out financially so they can grow up thinking struggle is normal and overconsumption is the goal.

And while we’re here,

Let’s talk about other people’s kids for a minute. Because they’re part of the problem too. Kids get bullied for literally anything now. For what they wear, for what they eat, for what their parents don’t buy them. My daughter gets picked on because I put a screen-time limit on her phone at 6 p.m. She needs to do her homework, bathe, actually feel and be present in her body, and go to bed at a reasonable time. Excuse me for not wanting my kid to turn into a phone zombie.

Then there’s the food truck thing. The “sweets truck.” Kids getting bullied for not being able to afford a $12 cake jar. Calling each other poor. Saying, “Yo mama can’t afford it.” You got damn right she can’t, because why does my child need a $20 dessert when we can bake a whole cake at home for less? What are we doing, people?!

Bring back the free shit!

Backyard picnics. Library runs. Movie Night. Blanket forts. Play dates with other kids and their parents. Park days. Bike rides until the streetlights come on. Water balloon fights in the neighborhood. Kickball! Baking cookies. Reading together! Saturday morning cartoons and cereal. Sunday walks (I’ve already implemented the no phones on Sundays rule). Free museum days. Sidewalk chalk competitions.

Where the cousins at?!

We need to remember what made childhood feel like childhood. The laughter. The boredom that turned into creativity. The togetherness that didn’t cost a dime. So help me if I hear “I’m Bored” one more damn time, I swear I’m gone shake something loose.

Bring boredom back and we can see what they make with it. Because if you still think a $12 jar is childhood, we are living in different centuries — and different tax brackets.

But capitalism doesn’t care about any of that. It keeps whispering, “If you loved them enough, you’d find a way.” And because we love them so much, we try. We scrape, we shift, we sacrifice—and then we feel guilty when it’s still not enough.

That’s how they get us. That’s how we end up exhausted, resentful, and convinced that our worth as parents is measured by how much we can afford to give.

The truth is, I want to give my kids everything—but not at the cost of myself. I want to teach them gratitude and balance, even when it’s hard. Especially when the world—and sometimes family—keeps undoing the lessons I’m trying to build.

But it’s hard as hell when you’ve got family members handing them every single thing you just said no to. Or when the other parent says “no” to everything — not because they’re teaching structure, but because they don’t actually do anything — and now you’re stuck trying to compensate for the “ain’t-~~shit~~-ness” of somebody else’s inconsistency.

So you end up being the one trying to teach lessons in a world that keeps un-teaching them. You’re not just parenting your kids — you’re parenting through contradictions. Through a culture that rewards indulgence, relatives that confuse spoiling with love, and an economy that profits off guilt.

I want my kids to have joy, but not entitlement. I want them to know comfort, but not convenience. I want them to understand that love isn’t built on how much I can give, but how present I can be.

Because the magic in my house doesn’t come from receipts. It comes from presence. It comes from those small, quiet moments — inside jokes over dinner, late-night conversations that somehow turn deep, or just existing together without the noise of the world trying to sell us something. It comes from safety, softness, and balance — things you can’t swipe a card for.

And I know some people won’t get it. That’s fine. But as for me and my house? I refuse to let capitalism, or anybody else, convince me OR my kids that love means watching me drown.

So yeah, my kids ain’t got McDonald’s money. And maybe yours don’t either. But what they do have is you — trying, showing up, setting boundaries, doing your best to raise humans in a world that keeps trying to sell them everything but values.

That’s all I got before somebody asks me for money again.

Hug your kids, hide your debit card, and stop trying to out-parent capitalism.

I’ll see you next time, probably mid-rant and low on gas — but at least my peace will still be paid in full.