Ijust attended my second to last open house at my youngest son's high school, an event that would have been unremarkable if not for a certain word popping into my head in English class. The entire evening, as I dutifully jotted course requirements and teacher's e-mail addresses, I thought: This is my penultimate visit to math . . . to history . . . to Spanish.

Penultimate events don't hold the same status as firsts and lasts. In the moment, we rarely recognize they're happening. And when we're afforded the luxury of looking back, we zero in on the end of the chapter: the last day of work, the last mortgage payment, the last year of high school.

But on open house night I couldn't shake the idea of ``almost'' -- almost there, almost done, almost past.

The value of the penultimate is in its foreshadowing, in appreciating the transition that has begun. I realized that in the crowded hallways, changing classes, trying to figure where I was going and where I was coming from.

Though I joke with friends about the number of back-to-school nights I had attended in my three decades as a parent (30-some and counting), my stomach lurched in recognition of the inevitable. The curtains are drawing ever so slowly close on what may be the most important role of my life.

And that's OK.

Two years hence, my life as resident enforcer, round-the-clock watchdog and nag extraordinaire will come to an end. My baby, who can now bench press twice my weight, will follow his siblings to college.

As I did with the others, I will keep his room -- trophies on shelves, cleats in closet, school papers in desk drawer -- the way he left it (minus the mess), but our relationship will shift, deliberately but without our notice, like tectonic plates. I know such change happens because I have experienced it four times over.

It's a privileged perch, this one of looking back and glancing forward. I did not occupy it with my first, or even with my third child. But a last kid imbues common rituals with nostalgia: I know will never pass this way again, so the walking turns bittersweet.

The chaos of parenting gives a mother little time to think, particularly if she works full-time. There are diapers to change, lunches to pack, homework to supervise, games to attend. One day slips into another, and before you know it . . . yes, before you know it.

So many years later, my children's milestones have blurred into background. I can't always remember who walked at what age or when the older ones stayed home with the chickenpox. ``Which one of you --'' I sometimes ask my five, hoping one or the other will have better recall than I do.

At open house the other night I saw a future without school projects, lab fees and electronic grade books. A momentary pang gave way to relief.

Soon I will take a bow and and make my exit. A new stage beckons.

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