Is it possible for a child to be obsessive-compulsive? I wonder. Is it possible that my lovely six-year-old has OCD?

It all began when she was four, when we moved into what we know refer to as Stately Pain Manor, though we could easily call it The Crack House. Our front door has some nice concrete steps that lead down to the sidewalk. Next to the stairs there is a small one by one foot area. My lovely daughter began collecting rocks and placing them in that small space.

It was cute at first. She’d find a new treasure and show it to us, describing how pretty it was and why she liked it. She named the rocks, called them her friends and used them for various states of play. She would even periodically wash them. After all, what good is a dirty rock?

After a brief stint in dealing with only rocks, she decided to diversify and add sticks to the bargain. Again, it seemed harmless. She’d arrange the rocks and sticks on the steps in patterns that only she understood. Sadly, she’d also leave them out overnight, looking to the neighbors as if the Blair Witch had paid us a visit in the night. This was only compounded by our Red Headed Family Friend (a.k.a. P Tiddy) who would be walking to his car late at night yelling, “Josh? Josh! Oh my God are those teeth????”

Sadly, those rocks and sticks would also be there early in the morning when I’d go out, barefoot, to pick up the paper.

Slowly she expanded beyond rocks and added the common detritus one finds below the surface of topsoil, or hiding among grass that has long needed a good mowing. Broken toys, bottle caps . . . anything that looked interesting became part of the collection. I was thankful that her treasure never included broken syringes and used condoms. But, then, we don’t live in California . . .

The collection began to grow until it looked like the tide had come in to deposit the ocean’s refuse. It was unsightly. I informed the little one that she would have to sort out her favorite rocks and place them in a box that we’d keep just inside the door. The collection could never grow beyond that box until she came up with a reasonable system for a reasonably sized collection. Then she’d have to return her little igneous friends to their natural habitat, preferably an area that posed no danger to life, limb or vehicle.

She did sort them out. She even stopped adding to the outside collection. Well, she stopped adding rocks. Sticks were another matter. And she never did put the rocks back.

The sticks came in all sizes, from tiny twigs to actual lumber. I have no idea where she would find them. I asked her to stop that, as well, because people were beginning to mistake our steps for a compost heap. She told me that sticks were part of trees and trees were alive and you can’t throw away living things. I explained that once the stick falls from the tree, it is no longer alive. “Blasphemer,” she cried, “wait until Greenpeace hears about this!”

I thought she had . . . until I found the collection newly located under a bush. Hundreds of little sticks. At first I thought a colony of frontier Smurfs were building their settlement there.

I got lazy and stopped reminding her to get rid of the rocks. I knew it was hard for her and, to be honest, I hate living here so if it makes her happy, then so be it.

But, I realized we had a problem a few weeks ago when we were cleaning out and rearranging her room. Hidden throughout her room were enclaves of rocks. One, I kid you not, weighed at least five pounds. She admitted to carefully sneaking it up to her room one day after school when I wasn’t looking.

It was time for an intervention. I began nagging her to get rid of the rocks. I even set up times. But nature was on her side. It rained, it stormed, we always had something more important to do.

Today I was finally fed up when I found what I think may be a support beam for someone else’s home piled out there. Once that home collapses, I’ll know where to return it. At the bus stop I informed her that she couldn’t leave sticks there anymore. She’s welcome to play with them, but leave them to nature. Sticks go back into the soil and provide nutrients for the trees, I said.

The looks she gave me can only be summed up as, “Whatever.”

So, I decided that the Stone Age was over. I cleaned out the whole area. It took four full plastic shopping bags to return the rocks to their proper place. I also found roughly 214 sticks strewn about. I think one may have been a chair leg once.

I prepared my speech when I got home. I knew she’d be upset. After all, this had been her collection. But I had given her so many chances. To many. I drafted what I’d say in my head and went out the wait for the bus.

When she arrived home she exclaimed, excitedly, “Daddy!” (Uh oh. Here it comes, prepare for tears.) “You cleaned out my rock collection. Cool.” Then she ran off with her friends.

I walked inside, confident that I had done the right thing. Right? I had triumphed on the side of non-clutter. Right?

Or had I? She was outside playing while I cleaned out the dirt from beneath my fingernails.

That little weasel had beaten me. She just learned a valuable lesson. If she procrastinates long enough, with a sweet demeanor, I will eventually do the work for her.

I fear the next time I look in the mirror I will find, neatly stamped to my forehead, the word “Sucker.”

And I am. I am. But it’s comfortable wrapped around her little finger. She even gives me a sense of power now and then.