We recently took Jack to the new space show, Cosmic Collisions, at the planetarium at the American Museum of Natural History. I’ve always been a huge astronomy geek, and considering Jack’s latest infatuation with all things big and loud (rock music, race cars and airplanes) I thought he might get a kick out of watching large celestial bodies collide. His affection lasted exactly five minutes. As soon as the ceiling-sized moon threatened to descend on the audience, Jack began to scream. For the rest of the day, nothing could compete with that moon; towering dinosaurs and razor-toothed fish couldn’t elicit even a squeak from Jack. Enemy number one was that “Big Moon” and the only day’s hero was the man who opened the planetarium doors and let Jack escape.

For me, those planetarium doors represent the hardest sacrifice I’ve had to make in becoming a mother. I am someone who thrives on big moons and deep oceans. As a writer, most of these depths and heights are internal ones, which I descend or climb at the whim of the creative process. That creative process is like a drug; it thrills, hooks, and transforms me. But drugs and the role of mother don’t often combine well. If I take off to explore the ocean’s depths or let myself enjoy the rush of cosmic collisions, Jack will likely drown in water too deep or lose himself in a space that’s too big. He needs me to be his container, his guide, his protector of all things small. He needs me to save him from big moons and rough surf. Sometimes, he needs me to save him from the very nourishment I crave.

Mothering any young child requires swimming in the shallow end of most pools, and Jack in particular needs a small, contained harbor in which to roam and a reliable lifeguard at the ready in case he loses his feet. This is not to say that Jack is especially small. In fact, considering his size and limited time on earth, Jack is a remarkably big personality. Like me, he seems to prefer to swim in the deepest pools he can handle. He’s independent, passionate, and always opinionated. I have no doubt that as he grows into his own sense of bigness, he will scale heights much greater than I can even imagine. But he’s still two years old. He’s a toddler, a munchkin—a relative shrimp in a world of sharks. And whether it’s the Aquarius in him or a heavy genetic load from his writer mom and shrink dad, Jack senses emotional currents with as much acuity as dolphins sense oceanic shifts. He can tell whether or not a song is going to be sad by its first introductory notes, and he can read the subtlest emotional nuances in the face of a stranger across a room. With this kind of sensitivity comes great potential and also great need. Jack requires extra protecting, often when he doesn’t even realize he’s in trouble of drowning. The bigger Jack gets, the more he needs me to keep life small.

Ever since Jack wandered into contact with that Big Moon at the planetarium, he’s been looking for the more familiar and less daunting Little Moon. I know that moon well. It sits up high in the evening sky, small and round like a distant coin. For now, that version of the moon is his best friend, and because it’s his friend, it needs to be mine. One day, he might prefer the bigger one, and when that time comes, we’ll have a lot to talk about. He is, after all, the reason I crave big moons and rough surf. He inspires me to dream big, live big, and love big. And if I’m being really honest, I have to admit that just as I serve as a container for him, Jack serves as a container for me. I know that as his mother I can only stray so far; always, the cord reigns me in. Always, that moon—big or small—pulls me back. Perhaps this gravitational force—and the safety it provides—is what allows me to crave the very biggest regions life has to offer. The craving is hard, though. Sometimes, I just want the Big Moon.