"Do you want the children's menu?" the hostess asked, flicking her eyes over my girl on her eleventh birthday. It seemed awfully small for The Cheesecake Factory, a place with a menu that sells advertising. We took it, anyway.

When we got to the booth, the little angel informed us she is no longer allowed to eat from that menu, as it is for children ten and under. We told her she probably wouldn't get arrested or anything, but she seemed proud of the fact that it was LEGALLY AGAINST THE LAW for her to order off that menu.

I sat there scarfing down the tiny bread that comes in the little basket and is just enough to kick your blood sugar into high gear but not enough to take the edge off your hunger if you ate a really little lunch because hello, you were going to The Cheesecake Factory, her birthday favorite and grandfather of America's portion-size issues, for dinner, and while I tried to make myself chew instead of just swallowing the doughy goodness whole, a sea of children's menus flashed before my eyes.

Hot dogs

Chicken fingers

Cheeseburger sliders

Cheese pizza

Macaroni & cheese

Applesauce

Fruit cup

French fries

Scoop of vanilla ice cream

It's not that I'm nostalgic for the children's menu. It's full of food that we all pretend is disgusting and then lick off our kids' plates after we finish our salad and they leave half a perfectly good chicken finger for which we paid hard-earned money, dammit. I don't miss the little kid days, actually. She was adorable, to be sure, but when I look back at the pictures we took of that time, I can see the exhaustion in my face and remember the feeling of OH MY GOD I CAN'T PLAY POLLY POCKETS ONE MORE TIME OR I WILL SCREAM AND I'M NOT SURE I WILL BE ABLE TO STOP SCREAMING PLEASE GOD SOMEONE PASS THE ATLANTIC.

It's just ... that at some places, at least, it's no longer an option. Another milestone, so to say. You hear everyone say it and you can't believe it's possible at the start of the journey, but eighteen years really isn't that long. I was a senior in high school more than eighteen years ago. I've been married for almost fourteen.

My marriage can't even eat off the kids' menu.

As my daughter would say, *poof*. Mind blown.

I look forward to the next chapter of her life, even though I'm a little afraid of the teen years that linger not that far on the horizon, and OMG, middle school even closer. Thank God she still can't finish a cheeseburger. Pass that plate, sweetheart. I got your back.

[Editor's Note: I wasn't compensated at all for this post. I only linked to the swings so you could visualize, as we all know I suck at photography.]

The tree must have already been a hundred years old by the time I met it and its black tractor tire swing hanging from a long yellow rope. It wasn't the sort of tire swing I see hanging on suburban playground sets, laid out horizontally with three ropes meeting in the center. This tire was hollowed out with handles cut in the sides, so you could sit deep inside it like an astronaut in a rocket booster and hang on for dear life.

I remember my father and uncles taking turns pushing us so high my toes seemed to crest the roof line of my cousin's house. We'd beg them to keep going long after we could tell they were regretting ever hanging that rope. In my imagination, the swing got higher off the ground every year as the tree grew, taking the swing with it inch by inch.

I loved that swing.

Last Christmas, Beloved bought me a canvas sky swing, the kind made out of canvas and wood that you see at home shows and think, "Man, I really need one of those," but you never buy it because it's totally frivolous. (I love gifts like that.) We hung it this summer from one of the forty-year-old trees outside our house, but I could never get a turn because my daughter and her friends were always in it, and it's not a swing meant for kids. It's a swing meant for long novels and a stepladder end-table to hold my glass of wine. So I bought the ladybug swing.

The rope wasn't long enough, so my husband and the neighbor got more and spent two hours getting the rope over one of the top boughs. My daughter, fearless as always, taught herself to run and jump onto it that afternoon, though she begs -- just as I did -- for the sort of above-the-head, underdog push only an adult can give, the kind that sends the swing twisting and jittering ten feet in the air as the child begins a methodical pendulum ride that's as pleasing to watch as it is to ride. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

I had to buy a timer because the neighbor kids all fought over the swing, ignoring hot tubs and motorized kid cars and wooden swingsets and park slides for the $23 ladybug swing, which has become so popular we unclip its little green string from the long white rope at night. It's a treat, something brought out only when there is time to sit back and inhale the scent rolling off the tomato plants and listen to the morning doves argue over safflower seed.

The swing is really a time machine, and it lands a few times a week in my cousin's yard in Iowa.

A few nights ago I fumbled around the kitchen after a workout, simultaneously trying to stop sweating, unload the dishwasher and put on vegetables to steam. I looked over at my daughter drawing cheerfully at the kitchen table. She looked up at me.

"Can I help you, Mommy?" she asked.

She does chores around the house, but rarely without being asked. This question came sincerely, without prompting.

"Yes, that would be lovely," I said.

She wiped down the table. She set the table. She opened a can of peas for herself, poured them into her bowl and some Tupperware, rinsed out the can and put it in the recycling. She poured the milk. She added cheese to the turkey burgers sizzling on the George Foreman grill without burning herself. She carried her little stool around the kitchen with a firm sense of purpose. Every time she finished a task, she looked at me expectantly. "What else can I do, Mommy?" In between tasks, she sat on her little stool, hands folded demurely in her lap.

I wasn't sure I knew this kid, but I liked her. A lot.

When Beloved walked through the door, the spell was broken. She ran to tell him about her day, and it was time to eat anyway. We sat down and watched her fall off her chair twice, back to normal. I told Beloved about that magical half hour when she morphed from a raucous and sometimes sassy five-year-old to a practical and concerned only daughter.

As I went in that night to kiss her sleeping head, I thought how she's changed lately. How she's gone from being solely someone I care for to being someone who occasionally cares for me, fetching me a soda from the fridge or holding a paper steady while I sign with one hand. Suddenly she's this kid who can go get the mail and set the table and get herself dressed in the morning.

When did that happen?