Anonymous Mom: I’m An OCD Mom Parenting An OCD Kid

A tangled ball of carpet fiber lay next to me on the “Circle Time” rug, taunting me. I have to eat that, I realize. I have to, or Mommy’s gonna die.

As my preschool teacher reads a story to the class, I slowly reach over and pluck the fuzzball from the rug. The fibers tickle the back of my throat. My body convulses to suppress the gagging, but I force myself to swallow. The shadows clear. I’ve saved my mom’s life. Again.

“She’s crying again, Mommy.”

My son stands at the foot of the stairs, his eyes sleepy and sad. It’s 10:45pm. I wade through a sea of Post-It notes in the bedroom floor to reach my seven-year-old daughter. She hunches over a pad of paper, scribbling furiously. I study a few of her notes.

REMEMBER TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH.

DON’T FORGET YOUR LUNCHBOX.

SING ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ TWO TIMES WHEN YOU WASH YOUR HANDS.

“I’m so tired, Mom,” she sobs. “I just want to go to bed.” She covers her face with her little hands, raw and chapped from constant washing. “Why can’t I stop? WHY CAN’T I STOP?!” She doesn’t understand. But I do. My kid’s genetic chickens have come home to roost.

Some moms pass on great cheekbones or an ass that won’t quit. Me, I gave my kid an obsession with soap.

Even though I had a wonderful childhood, my earliest memories are of anxiety. Like any kid in a typical American household, I was taught that God would “speak” to me if I listened hard enough. So when scary thoughts started popping into my head – mutely commanding me to do stuff or suffer the consequences – I’d DO it. Again and again – paying the piper – a personal loan shark inside my brain. Because the ONE time I decided not to obey, the things I feared just might come true. And there’d be no one to blame but myself.

Pages: 1 2