written by Rachel Ulriksen

When my daughter, Dana turned 3, she started pre-school. There are no words to describe how excited she was that first day. “I’m so big! I’m so big! I go to school now Mom because I’m so big!”  How could I not get caught up in her enthusiasm. Her shoes were made of glitter! She had a pink, leopard print backpack monogrammed with a D on the front.  Dana was ready. We pulled up to the school, as soon as we crossed the parking lot Dana let go of my hand and ran towards the door as fast as her small body could go. She opened the front door, turned around, looked at me incredulously and said, “I don’t need you,” then she stepped inside.

Now I know what you’re thinking, “That’s so sad!” I didn’t see it that way, because Dana has always been incredibly independent. The moment she started to crawl she crawled away from me. The first day she managed 10 steps she walked right to the baby gate and starting pointing outwards as if to say, “Mommy there’s a world out there I want to see.
You are probably wondering “How did that not break your heart?” I was prepared for Dana wanting to go off, and not needing me. I had accepted it.

The experience would be so different with my son Kevin. I can still remember the feel of that sweet doctor’s hand in mine and the subtle smell of lilacs when she told me my body had shut off the oxygen supply to my baby. “Go home,” she said. “Get as much sleep as you can. I’ll see you in a few hours when we take the baby out.
I cried the whole way home.

I cried more when I got home. I cried, cried and cried because I could no longer ignore the little voice inside my head. “There’s something wrong with my baby,” it sang, “something very wrong. Wrong enough for your body to want him out.” I continued to cry loud and pitiful tears, until I heard Dana’s little feet on the stairs.
“Mommy, babies coming tomorrow?”
“Yes, sweetie isn’t that exciting?”
“Aunt Audra is taking me big slide.”
“I know I’m jealous.”
This is the part I will never forget: she looked at me with so much love and sympathy. She gently kissed my cheek and said, “You don’t have to worry Mommy, I’ll be fine.” 

Fast forward 12 years to Kevin’s first Special Olympics swimming competition at Trenton State. And the event is a two night sleepover. Kevin had never slept over with anyone except family.
The Special Olympics is a special event, no one can prepare you for it. I’ve often thought about suggesting the organizers have a banner that says “You Are About To See Some Really Weird Shit.” It might help parents like myself to not be so shocked when they walk out of the parking garage and immediately get hit in the head with not one, but 3 tennis balls.

I set out to find Kevin before the races began to wish him luck. I’d been away from him now for almost a full 24 hours. The acute separation anxiety had set in. When the volunteer first asked me if Kevin could sleep over, I initially said no. I said no initially because Kevin still wears pull-ups at night. He has a complicated medical regime. But that is the magic of the Special Olympics. Unlike most of the world Special Olympics is capable of handling special needs children. Pullups ? No problem. Complex medical regimes? No problem.

When it comes to Kevin, I confess, I am a shameless helicopter mom. It was time for me to see Kevin at the event. I found a young volunteer and asked if I could say hi to Kevin. Her reply “No.” Slightly taken back I asked, “Why, not?” She replied, “When Kevin finishes his race he’ll be brought up to the gymnasium for awards. You can see him then.” Disappointed, I sulked upstairs to the bleachers. When Kevin’s team marched in it lifted my spirits. I jumped up and down, screamed, waved and made a complete ass out of myself.

When the race was over, I ran up to the gymnasium and asked a different volunteer, “May I please see my son?” “No,” he replied. “You can see him after he walks off the podium with his medal. Have a seat please.”

I am able to see Kevin get his medal which has my heart bursting with love. Finally, I’m able to hug him and tell him how proud I am. I share with Kevin that the organizers were setting up  a yummy looking lunch. The coach came over to congratulate Kevin and to ask if he would eat with his mommy or his team. Without skipping a beat Kevin said, “I will eat with my team.” I blurted out “May I join you guys?” Kevin chimed in and said “No, Mom you stay here. I do not need you.” Kevin walked away to rejoin his teammates. The coach said “You can join us for dinner if you’d like,” then he walked away too.

In my head I played out what I wanted to say “You can’t say that you don’t need me Kevin. Dana can say it because I have always been prepared for her to be independent. She couldn’t need me because you needed me so much. You need me like you need food, water, air, and love. There was no instruction manual. I had to figure it all out. Slowly, consistently we have little by little chipped away at everything they said you couldn’t do. You couldn’t talk, but eventually I fixed it. You couldn’t walk, but I fixed it. You bit your classmates and had accidents at school. You hit me, kicked me, broke my things, attacked our dog. And yet, today we are at the Special Olympics, you had a sleepover, you have a gold medal around your neck, you are going to a dance! We made it, we are making it. Please don’t tell me you don’t need me anymore Kevin. Don’t ever say that. If you say that I won’t know who I am.”

By now people started filing into the auditorium as lunch was over. I walked over to the same pretty volunteer who was standing guard. I looked her directly in the eyes and said, “I need to see my son.” Before she could open her mouth to say no, I opened mine.
“Look miss, I understand you have a job to do. Until today my son has been my entire life. My everything. Today he told me he didn’t need me anymore. He didn’t mean it. What he meant is all the hard work we have done is finally paying off. He is becoming more independent. And I need to back off a little. I felt a sense of relief getting it all out. I reminded myself to breathe.”

The poor girl looked a little shell-shocked. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“I understand,” I said. “I think I can make it easy for you. I don’t want to talk to him; I don’t even want to get close to him. You can walk in with me. I won’t leave the vestibule. I just need to see him. I need to see him and in my own way, say goodbye to the little boy he used to be and the Mom I had to be.”

She let me in and I was able to see Kevin playing UNO with his friends. He was like any other boy at a swim meet. Three hours later Kevin had three more medals. The coach made an announcement, “Alright, moms and dads, we’d love for you to walk back with us to the dormitory but then all swimmers are off to the dance!” We started our trek and Kevin and I had a chance to talk.
Me: “You’re going to a dance!?”
Kevin: “Yeah I like dance.”
Me: “I know you’re a great dancer.”
Kevin: “You coming?”
Big, deep breaths Rachel, I reminded myself again. 
Me: “You don’t need me to go to a dance. You’ll have your teammates there and lots of pretty girls to dance with.”
Kevin: “Yeah I like dance with pretty girls” We arrived at the dormitories, everyone was saying their goodbyes.
Me: “I love you so much buddy. You have a great time at the dance and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Kevin: “See you tomorrow. Kiss me now ten times then I go dance.”

I kissed Kevin ten times, he hesitated for a moment and asked, “Mom you OK?” I found the courage to look at him. I couldn’t help but kiss his cheek. I looked Kevin direct in the eye and said,  “You don’t have to worry Kevin, I’ll be fine. I will always me and I’ll always be Kevin and Dana’s Mom, no matter how independent either of you get.”

After the birth of her son, Rachel Ulriksen spent many years isolated.   Because of Kevin’s aggressive and self-injurious behavior, she was crippled by guilt and humiliation.  Having finally freed herself from this self-induced prison, Rachel is on a mission to save mothers like herself from the devastating shame she never deserved to feel.  She shares her life experience (the good, the bad, and the ugly) in the blog she authors:  The Kevin Chronicles.  Rachel is also a special education teacher who helps special needs children acquire the skills they need to make a smooth transition to adulthood.  She is a wife of 23 years, mother of three children, avid gardener, fabulous cook, bird watcher, church singer, and believer that all things are possible with love and community.