When Jellybean was born, there were more than a few milkman jokes. Her hair was so blonde as to be transparent and her head so pink, she came out looking like a redhead.

But as the years roll past, there can be no doubt that this tiny bundle of perpetual motion is all mine, although she looks more like her mother, considering she actually has hair.

Mine, it could be said, is more of a genetic influence; a behavioral presence that's constantly rearing its cute, neurotic head.

As of this moment, there are four blankets perfectly spread across the carpet with nary a corner wrinkled. They're so neatly aligned as to look like aerial views of alien-made crop circles.

There are a dozen polished rocks arranged in a perfect square on the coffee table. Behind the rock formation is a “parade” of Disney Princesses ranging from Tatiana and Sleeping Beauty to Snow White and Belle.

In the bathroom, every rubber toy from the pink “Mama Duck” to a dragon in scuba-diving gear has been placed in a line along the lip of the bathtub – a process which must be completed both before and after bath time.

Books must be neatly stacked. Hours can be spent folding and re-folding washcloths on the kitchen counter. Placemats, which double as “baby blankets,” are gently pulled from their homes and splayed out like paving stones across the living room floor.

This is life with Jellybean.

She can be messy and scatterbrained as any 3-year-old with her weight in spilled yogurt. She routinely gets cinnamon roll icing in her hair, refuses to pick up her markers off the floor, is perpetually sticky, throws her tennis shoes across the room as if she's trying to hit the last guy standing in a game of dodge ball and leaves behind more crumbs than Hansel and Gretel.

Still, there's no question that Jellybeans got a touch of Daddy's OCD. That's bit of hereditary alchemy, I wished had skipped a generation.

For those who think being OCD is all silly anecdotes about hand-washing, door-knob touching and freakish neatness, allow me to remove those rose-colored glasses and clean them up a bit. Being truly OCD can be a real burden. I should know. I've been diagnosed by a professional.

Unlike Monk, who turned being OCD into some sort of crime-fighting weapon, I've never solved a murder or busted a drug ring based on a sixth-sense of disorder.

But I've made many people miserable and made myself sick with worry.

Before I got married, I was so stressed that I actually believed I had cancer.

Logically I knew this was impossible, but my mind latched on to the idea and wouldn't let go. For months it was literally all I could think about. And when The Diva wanted to have someone spend the night or, God forbid, we hosted Thanksgiving dinner at our house, I would go into a constant-cleaning frenzy and pre-hosting panic that was so bad My Lovely Wife was afraid of telling me for fear of how I'd overreact.

It wasn't so bad when I lived alone and could hide my neurosis. But in the spotlight-glare that is marriage, things became pretty tense. I'm on medication now, though there's still the occasional cleaning crisis – so at least I can breath when it's noon and the bed still has not been made.

Sure, Jellybean's cute when she's folding towels or arranging her bath toys, but there are some things about Daddy that I'd rather keep for himself.