It’s well past 8 p.m., and my little boy should be tucked into bed. Tonight is supposed to be special, with his dad home to help, giving me a brief reprieve from the usual bedtime chaos that comes with a toddler and a sleeping baby girl. However, as often happens on these rare “bedtime-free” evenings, my son has been wailing for the last 40 minutes, kicking and screaming, desperately trying to avoid sleep while my husband employs all his usual tricks—cajoling, begging, redirecting. It’s a familiar scene.
Suddenly, the house falls silent, and I find myself cheering for my husband’s small victory. But then, from the top of the stairs, I hear a sound that makes my heart race: the baby gate swinging open and my son calling, “Mommy?” I hold my breath, anticipating the heavy footsteps of my husband guiding our little one back to bed. Instead, I hear it again, more urgently: “MOMMY?” Alarmed, I rush toward the noise.
There he is, at the top of the stairs, navigating down one step, then the next, his tiny hand on the cool wall for support. His body, slick with sweat from the tantrum, looks shaky and exhausted. Panic surges through me; he never attempts the stairs alone. I scream for my husband, urging my son, “Baby, stop! Just hold on!”
In an instant, it’s over. My husband swoops in and lifts our son into his arms, the bedroom door closes, and I feel a wave of relief. But in my mind, he’s still in danger. Intrusive thoughts begin to loop: images of my sweet boy tumbling down the stairs and suffering a terrible fate. I shake my head in an attempt to dispel the thoughts, but they persist. Frantically, I hit my temple, a ritual from my childhood that I’ve clung to for moments like these, hoping to reset my mind. I know it doesn’t work, yet I can’t stop myself.
This chaotic ritual ruins the peaceful evening my husband envisioned. As we sit on the couch watching our favorite show, I tense and grimace, retreating inward while my husband awkwardly pulls back, unsure of how to help.
Living with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) has been my reality for most of my life. Before I became a parent, my obsessive thoughts centered around my own mortality. Now, with children, my fears are magnified. I can’t cook without worrying I’ll poison them, which leads me to avoid cooking altogether. Each day, as my son leaves for daycare with my husband, I find myself trapped in silent and spoken rituals, fearing that without them, something catastrophic could happen.
If I put my daughter down while she’s crying, and she manages to self-soothe, I rush to wake her, convinced that if I don’t, I’ll lose her. When I feel a clogged duct while nursing, I panic and massage it so aggressively, convinced it’s cancer, that I injure myself while envisioning a future without my children. Even after consulting specialists and receiving assurances, I’m haunted by the idea that I’ll leave my kids too soon. The joyous moments are often overshadowed by intrusive thoughts, my own voice taunting me: “You’ll be gone soon. Your children will resent you.”
Though I’ve battled this disorder for years, even during my best days, OCD finds a way to creep back in.
I’ve always known there was a chance I might pass on this mental illness to my children. Now that they’re here, the reality hits hard: If my son or daughter inherits this burden, how do I show them love? Do I accept and embrace their OCD, knowing I understand it intimately, or do I continue to despise it? If I can’t accept their struggles, does that mean my love isn’t truly unconditional? Am I failing if I can’t separate them from their struggles?
Tonight, I’ll hold on to the gratitude that my son didn’t fall down the stairs. I’ll take each moment as it comes, one day at a time.
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