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.

OCD has its pitfalls, but also some really great perks. Keen attention to detail and an unsurpassed ability to see things through to the end are among my Dark Passenger’s bag of tricks. As my daughter and I go through the motions of our day – watching Jeopardy together, chipping away at my Ph.D dissertation, celebrating an A+ on her spelling test – I remind her of the “gift” we share.

OCD makes you careful, I tell her. And determined. It’s not all hand-washing and flipping light switches. She nods sagely. “I know, Mom.” I know, too. Most days.

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

I wipe my eyes. “What do you mean?”

My boyfriend’s arms encircle my waist. He rests his chin on my shoulder.

“You spend more time with your kids than most moms do. You teach at their school. You make them dinner.”

“I’m not doing enough.”

“They’re crazy about you.”

“I’m failing them.”

“How?!” He studies my face. “What are you so worried about?”

Micro-thoughts flit through my mind. My daughter’s slumped shoulders after I’d snapped at her for dawdling before school. The pile of crumpled tissues on my nightstand as I mourned the moment later. An image of her as an adult, hating me for saddling her with defective DNA. Her little, chapped hands.

“Everything.”

She’s not alone. Something like one in 200 kids has OCD. Unlike me, who kept my secret under wraps until my 30s, my daughter now sits contentedly with her diagnosis. To her, it’s no bigger deal than her hair or eye color. I marvel at her confidence, the gentle nurturing her teacher reported when she comforted a classmate during a storm (“I have OCD, and it makes me get scared about stuff, too.”). When I found a blonde (most likely Barbie) hair in my coffee one morning, she sensed my tension and said, “Hey, look, Mom! You have Starbucks Blonde Roast!” Her peaceful acceptance of our “gift” is both inspiring and heartbreaking.

“Got your lunch?”

“Yep.” She unfastens her seatbelt. “See you later!”

I watch her wheel her backpack up the sidewalk. She pulls up her sleeve before touching the doorknob. She pulls the door open and starts to go in, but pauses. She turns back around for one last wave. I wave back and begin to pull away, but she’s yelling something. I open the window.

“I knew you’d still be right behind me!” She grins and skips through the threshold.

Was. Am. And will be.