I’m currently 37 weeks pregnant.

It’s the longest I’ve been pregnant, though I recognize that’s a silly thing to say, as this is “only” my second pregnancy, and perhaps my last, depending on whether David’s threat to get a vasectomy plays out or not.

At 37 weeks pregnant, I am sleeping surprisingly well, despite waking up a few times at night to pee. The baby is sitting so low in my pelvic region that the ob/gyn has a hard time finding her heartbeat. And because this baby is essentially crushing my bladder like juicing a lemon, every drop of liquid I consume is squeezed out of me in about five minutes. I have a dull, throbbing ache on my lower back that fires shooting pain down the front of my leg if I stand still, which makes cooking, grocery shopping, even showering painful and uncomfortable.

Really, my symptoms aren’t that bad, but already I am over it. I have new respect for women who have carried their child (or children) for more than 41 weeks. I am more than ready to push this baby out. You can come out now, baby! Out out out!

But then, other times, I wonder: What’s the rush? Am I really willing to trade backaches and leg pain for weeks of sleep deprivation and soreness and exhaustion? And also…just as I couldn’t imagine Tov as a human being before he was born, I still have a hard time imagining my unborn daughter as a real person– someone with her own personality and voice, her own features and desires, someone with whom I will fall in love as fiercely as I did with Tov.

When Tov was first born, I was emotionally numb. I didn’t feel that overwhelming sensation of love, of claiming him as mine. It took a few days for my emotions to finally awaken, for me to look at his red, scabby little face and think, My son. It is really hard for me right now to imagine loving my second as much as I love my firstborn, though I’m sure that love will come just as powerfully and unconsciously. Even so, there’s a part of me that’s mourning a little, because I know I won’t have as much time and energy for Tov once this baby is born. He’s growing up so fast, and I’m not even ready for that.

I think that’s why I felt this sharp pang of sorrow when Tov came back from the kids hair salon one afternoon with a drastically different haircut.

Tov has dark, straight, thick hair that falls in shiny curtains around his face. The last time we cut his hair was in May, and since then, his bangs have grown past his eyes, and he looked like a young Justin Bieber. David took him recently to a kids hair salon and asked for a trim. Just a TRIM, he said. Instead, the woman picked up a buzzer and shaved off all his locks down to a fuzzy crew cut within three minutes.

I had just finished showering when David arrived with Tov. I turned to greet my son as he walked into the bathroom, sucking on a cherry Tootsie Roll Pop, and I could barely recognize him. Gone was my cute Asian boy with a bowl-cut acorn hair. In sauntered a teenage punk with a buzz cut. He now looks more impish than cute when he smiles, more like he’s about to go set the woods on fire than draw on our white couch with a blue marker. He went to the hair salon my sweet little Tov; he came back a stranger.

I was horrified. I was upset. But mostly, I am sad.

It’s been five days since his haircut and I still can’t get used it. I think the fact that I’m already anticipating so many changes and transitions to our lives, to Tov’s life, makes me react more strongly to his new look. I love this 27-month-old Tov as much or even more than the 24-month-old Tov and the 12-month-old Tov, and I will love the 30-month-old Tov who will by then be a big brother, but I miss all those old Tovs, too.

Looking at Tov’s suddenly grown-up face reminds me of all the great changes to come: the day he loses his little boy’s voice, the day he loses the baby fat in his cheeks, the day he sprouts whiskers and fur on his legs, the day he no longer runs to hug me around the legs, or cackle when we play “peekaboo,” or giggle at the silliest things, or worship me, or cry about things that don’t matter like not having his truck in his crib, or collect acorns and pinecones in his blue bucket, or cuddle with me in bed watching Miss Rachel sing “Wheels on the Bus.”

This new face fast-forwards me to a strange, unknown, grown-up Tov. Will he still look up to me with adoration, or find me annoying and ignorant and old? Will he still want to hang out with me, or prefer spending all weekend and holidays with his friends and eventually, disappear to create his own family? Will he still be sweet and affectionate and cheeky and bright, or will he be moody, troubled, angry, resentful, envious, unpleasant? The reality is, he will be all of those things at some point, and there’s nothing I can do about it, except intentionally enjoy and be grateful for each season I have with him.

It’s the greatest tragedy of parenthood, that we devote everything we have into creating and raising a life only to set it out into the cruel world.

I can birth two dozen babies, and I’ll nestle them into my chest as soon as they enter the world with a shriek, but the moment they learn how to walk, every one of them will learn how to scamper away from me, away into independence, away into their own lives and worlds of which I have little say and control.

If that’s the greatest tragedy of parenthood, the greatest challenge is to somehow be at peace with that fact, and entrust them into the Lord’s hands.