Although I was reluctant to backslide from our consistent sleep schedule into this co-dependent co-sleeping arrangement, it was the only way I could get the precocious 28-month-old to take a nap of any sort.

It’s effectiveness was acceptable at first.  There was about a 90% chance that she would fall asleep during nap time, after up to an hour of goofing around.  It also afforded me a chance to get a little shut-eye.  In fact, I could usually sleep even if the kid didn’t.  And if it weren’t for this brief respite, I would have no time to recover from the late nights I spend goofing around on twitter and facebook drinking wine and watching Breaking Bad writing.

Alas, the efficacy of this situation seems to be waning.  I’d say that these days the likelihood of her sleeping at all is only about 50%, and the time she spends preparing for the nap has extended to at least an hour.

However, this daily daddy-daughter time has given me an opportunity to observe the kid in unique circumstances.  The ritual she goes through before finally settling into some unlikely corner of the room and going to sleep gets more complicated from one day to the next, but there are several aspects that remain constant.  Today, as I feigned sleep in my hopes that she would get bored and pass out, I finally started to see the overall pattern of her pre-nap routine:

1. Arrange stuffed toys (“friends”) on top of plastic bin
2. Make sure Dad has the right blanket (orange beach towel)
3. Stuff other blankets under crib
4. Walk the perimeter of the room
5. Sit on Dad’s head to check for consciousness
6. Remove items that don’t belong in nursery at nap time (mardi gras beads, second-tier stuffed animals, etc.)
7. Put on sunglasses
8. Lie down, tell Dad “Fix my rectangle” (arrange blanket)
9. Talk about dolphins
10. Walk the perimeter
11. Move friends to safer location; e.g. under the crib
12. Lie down
13. Talk about people not seen or spoken of for over two weeks
14. Use Dad as “surf board”
15. Walk the perimeter
16. Lie down halfway under crib

Ultimately, I hope to be able to come up with a theory about why this behavior makes sense in terms of evolutionary adaptations.  For now I’m just happy if I can get a half-hour of sleep out of it.

Today’s post is from Shana, a mother living with and writing about OCD.

It never fails. Get a group of women together, and it won’t be long before someone says “Oh, I am so OCD. I do x, y, and z, and I have to have things just so.” I have to just smile and shake my head. Because those sweet women have no idea what it is like to live every day with the monster of OCD.

OCD isn’t simply having to have things organized. Or having to have your house spotless. Or using hand sanitizer repetitively. OCD is much more insidious and incapacitating. OCD is a silent fiend that sneaks in under the guise of precaution and safety and wreaks havoc on your habits, your relationships, and your very beliefs.

When I got pregnant with my first child, I wanted to do everything perfectly.  I read all the magazines, bought book after book, asked questions of everyone, and researched things online. I was going to be the perfect mother.  Because if I wasn’t, the guilt was going to eat me alive.

That guilt should have been my first clue that I wasn’t my rational self.

My daughter was born, and with it came more worries. Mostly about contamination. My daughter had meconium in her lungs when she was born, so she had to stay in the NICU for 3 days. And every time I went in to see her, I had to scrub. Up to my elbows. Which made me paranoid that my baby’s immune system was weak.

When I got home, compounded by the lack of sleep and general anxiety over having a newborn, the fear continued and the obsessions began. “If I take out the trash and then hold her, she might get sick.” Or “If I cook or do dishes, and get germs on me, then hold her, she might get sick.” Or “If I do laundry and then hold her, she might get sick.”

The list of things that I couldn’t do became longer and longer. And my stress level became higher and higher. And all of it centered around not getting my daughter sick. Because I didn’t want to feel that overbearing guilt.

So the compulsions began. After cooking or doing dishes I would change my clothes before I held my daughter. After doing laundry or housework, I’d have to shower before I could hold my daughter. Anything she dropped on the floor had to be sterilized.

Over the next 5 years, I had 2 more children. And the obsessions about contamination became more intense. Almost everything that came into our house had to be scrubbed clean. I was terrified of germs, dirt, lawn chemicals, mold, and any substances that were on items that I couldn’t identify. And to make matters worse, I was terrified of cleaning chemicals. I was stuck in a catch 22. I didn’t want the dirt. But I didn’t want the “toxic” chemicals either.

So I avoided everything. And when I couldn’t avoid, I washed. At my very worst, I was showering 4 or 5 times a day. If I didn’t wash, I couldn’t function. Even when I did wash, I was barely functioning. My skin was raw. And so was my soul.

My relationship with my husband deteriorated. He went about life as normal, so everything he touched became “contaminated”. I’d keep track of everything he touched, and then scrub or throw away everything he had contaminated after he left for work.  I became angry at him because I felt like he was torturing me. (In all fairness, I have to say that my husband is neither mean nor insensitive. He was having as hard a time as I was, watching the irrational madness that I was succumbing to.)

When I was at my worst, I was passively suicidal. I didn’t want to kill myself, but I couldn’t help but think that my family would be better off if I were dead. I hoped that God would find a way to kill me off so my family could move on and I would be out of my misery.

It was then that I decided to seek help. I had seen therapists before, but they had all specialized in talk therapy, which doesn’t help OCD one single bit. But I decided that I had to do something, so I found a therapist, and with her help I started down the road of recovery.

I didn’t want to take medication at first. I was paranoid about putting anything into my body that might have a side effect. But I bit the bullet and started taking my pills. And if this were a movie, those pills would have cured me. Happy ending, ta-da!

But in reality, I had to struggle even more. After 4 years of trial and error, I finally found the right psychiatrist and the right medication combination. Relief was in sight.

Now, even though I am not cured, life is better. I am back to only 1 shower a day.  I still have to do my laundry and cleaning before I shower, but I can face it now, instead of avoiding it. I don’t have to follow my husband around anymore, keeping track of how dirty he is.  I am able to use cleaning agents and keep my home relatively clean. I still have issues with lawn chemicals. I probably always will.

But now I can focus on being a mom, a wife, a daughter, a person.  I can allow a small amount of uncertainty in my life without having a complete meltdown.  Am I the perfect mom? Not by a long shot. But I’m giving it my best. I realized that perfection is not a realistic goal for me. Surviving is the key. And when I can do that with just a little bit of joy, that’s good enough for me.

You can read more about Shana’s journey at her blog I’m a Mom. I Have O.C.D.