A couple of weeks ago, I had an epiphany at McDonald’s. Enlightenment always comes at the most ordinary moments.

Mickey D’s is not my first hangout of choice, nor is it my second or third. It would be hard to even get it near the top 100 on my list. My reasons are legion, of course.

I’ve seen "Super Size Me." I’ve read "The Omnivore’s Dilemma." I know what the increasing industrialization of food production is doing to our way of life.

The social/political/economic implications are not lost on me.

Despite my knowledge of the chain’s evils, my biggest issue is that with one exception, there’s nothing at McDonald’s that I want to eat. I will only go out of my way for is a Shamrock Shake, and that’s it.

The magic of the Shamrock Shake lies in its scarcity. Like ripe, homegrown tomatoes, the season for the Shamrock Shake is limited. In some parts of the country _ like the deep South _ a Shamrock Shake is as hard to find as a leprechaun.

But what McDonald’s does have is a Playland. On long car trips, the Playland can save your parental bacon. On our last long road trip, a Playland just outside of Boston kept our kids from being left on the side of the road like so much litter.

I promise you that we would have come back for them, once we were able to shake the sounds of "Cooooo-rrry," which the Diva whined at a pitch that was just shy of the sounds only dogs can hear.

She’d do this whenever he even looked like he was thinking about getting on her nerves. By this point in the trip, his breathing counted as annoying.

He responded to the whining by screaming. Since the Hub and I didn’t want to get hauled into court on child abandonment charges, the Playland was the only resource at our disposal.

Ten minutes later, after scaling the very walls of the place, we all moved one step closer to enjoying each other again.

Had there been Shamrock Shakes, I might have been in a good enough mood to buy ponies for the kids. As it was, we were happy to get back on the road.

Road trips aside, there are days when all you want to do is turn your kids loose in a fairly confined space where they can run around until they fall over from exhaustion.

If a more environmentally, gastronomically and economically friendly restaurant would put in a Playland, I’d be beside myself with glee. Those places don’t seem interested in courting large numbers of knee-biter set and their parents, though.

Yes, I know why McD’s wants my kids to build a future customer base. I’m OK with that, mostly because their marketing motivations are so transparent. This is the world my kids will live in. I’d rather they know what’s out there and learn moderation than go hog wild when they leave the shelter of my benign influence.

I’m a big fan of the idea of vaccinating kids against what they may encounter. If it takes a small amount of polio to keep them from catching a full-blown case, so be it. If it takes an occasional bite of two all-beef patties to avoid future years spent in the clutches of the clown, excellent. To each, her own.

I’ve digressed.

My epiphany came while the Diva was climbing up one of the towers in the Playland. Not overly long ago, the Diva was terrified of them, so much so that she’d frequently get herself stuck about halfway up. She’d be too scared to go higher and equally terrified to come back down. The only way to get her back on terra firma was to go up myself, bending my 5-foot-8 frame into a space for a 3-foot-6 one. I did my best each time to get back down without damaging her, me or the nine dozen other kids who were ticked off because we were in the way of their fun.

Her brother, it should be known, has no such qualms. Once his legs get just a little bit longer, I doubt we’ll ever see him again. He’ll take up residence in one of the highest tubes. We’ll visit, of course, but never lay hands on the Boy again.

The Diva has always been more cautious, especially when it comes to protecting her body. Which is great _ but has always meant that she’d rather hold on to my leg than climb or swim or romp with other kids.

But she’s older now, which I intellectually knew as I was filling out her kindergarten registration and planning for her fifth birthday party. It didn’t really hit me until I saw her scamper up to the top of the Playland tower a couple of weeks ago, scaling the thing like a nimble monkey. Gone is the kid who clung to me, replaced by a kid who has the confidence to climb. One more invisible strand that connects us was cut that afternoon. I’d be lying if this realization didn’t hurt just a little bit.

The broad grin on her face as she flew down the slide made up for it _ as did the peals of laughter and glow of pride that followed. And then she ran right past me to do it again.

Adrienne Martini, author of "Hillbilly Gothic," is freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta and Hartwick College, mom to Maddy and Cory and wife to Scott.