It’s long past 8 p.m., and my son should be tucked in for the night. Tonight is one of those rare evenings when his father is home, and I should be relishing a break from the usual toddler bedtime chaos now that my baby daughter is peacefully sleeping. Yet, as often happens on these “bedtime reprieve” nights, my toddler has spent the last 40 minutes screaming, kicking, and doing everything possible to avoid sleep while my husband tries to soothe him with familiar words of comfort and redirection. This is nothing new.
Finally, the house quiets down, and I silently cheer for my husband’s small victory. However, from the top of the stairs, I hear the baby gate creak, followed by my son’s voice calling, “Mommy?” I hold my breath in anticipation. Any moment now, I expect to hear my husband’s heavy footsteps as he brings our little boy back to bed. Instead, I hear him call out again, more insistently, “MOMMY?” My heart races as I head in his direction.
There he is at the top of the stairs, alone. He cautiously navigates the first step, then the second, using his tiny hand for support against the cool wall. His body is slick with sweat from his tantrum, and as he stumbles forward, my heart leaps into my throat. He never ventures down the stairs without one of us in front of him. Panic shoots through me, and I scream for my husband while urging my son, “Sweetie, stop! Just wait!”
Then, just like that, it’s over. My husband swoops in and gathers our son into his arms. The bedroom door shuts, and he’s safe. But in my mind, he’s not. Intrusive thoughts flood my consciousness, replaying horrifying images of my boy tumbling down the stairs in a gruesome accident. I shake my head to dispel the thoughts, but they keep returning. In a futile attempt to find relief, I strike my temple in a ritual I’ve had since childhood, hoping to reset my mind. I know it doesn’t help, but I can’t stop; it’s my way of coping with the overwhelming fear.
Of course, this ritual ruins the peaceful evening my husband envisioned. As we sit on the couch watching our favorite show, I’m consumed by anxiety, hitting my head in frustration. I can feel my husband’s discomfort as he pulls away from me, unsure of how to help.
I’ve struggled with obsessive-compulsive disorder for as long as I can remember. Before having children, my obsessions revolved around my own demise. Now, as a mother, my fears have shifted to my children. I can’t cook without worrying I might poison them, so I avoid it altogether. Every day when my son leaves for daycare, I engage in silent and spoken rituals, feeling compelled to repeat them to stave off the dread of something terrible happening to them—something too frightening to even articulate.
If I allow my daughter to self-soothe while crying, I rush in to wake her, already grieving for a future without her. When I discover a clogged duct while nursing, I massage it so aggressively, convinced it’s a sign of cancer, that I injure myself. Despite numerous ultrasounds and consultations with specialists, I can’t find comfort, and I obsessively touch the area until I can feel it is smooth again. Joyful moments are overshadowed by despair as my mind taunts me: You’re going to die soon. Your kids will resent you.
Living with this reality has become my norm, yet even during my best moments, OCD finds a way to intrude. It’s a part of me that I loathe, a constant battle I can’t escape.
Before having children, I knew there was a chance I could pass on this mental illness to them. Now that they are here and I love them fiercely, the weight of that reality feels heavier: If my kids inherit this burden, how do I love their OCD? Do I embrace it, knowing it as intimately as I do, or do I continue to fight against it? If I despise their OCD, does that mean I can’t love them unconditionally? Am I failing as a mother?
Tonight, I’ll focus on the fact that my son didn’t fall down the stairs, and for now, that will have to be enough.
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Summary:
This heartfelt exploration of motherhood and obsessive-compulsive disorder highlights the struggles of a mother trying to navigate her fears while raising young children. The internal battle against intrusive thoughts and anxiety is a daily reality, as she grapples with the implications of potentially passing on her OCD to her kids, all while striving to maintain a sense of normalcy for her family.