I didn’t like the movie Inside Out, but not for the reason you’ve already guessed.

I will admit that I think about things too much — and also that I fell asleep during a critical time during the plot development of Pixar’s latest — but really, I thought the whole thing was a convoluted, over wrought mishmash of how to not try to explain emotions to your kid. Not in a meaningful way, at least.

In a word, I thought the movie was stupid. Which is kind of funny, since a lot of people have been criticizing it for belittling people who are not “intelligent” — a discussion that has now expanded to include other Pixar movies.

And, for me, life.

Because let’s face it, almost all of us (me included) use, see and hear the word stupid (and moron, idiot, dumb, the list goes on) all the time. It’s not just in Pixar movies. It’s everywhere.

The question: Is that okay? The answer: Please don’t make me decide.

At this point most of us can agree that the word retarded is not cool — not the way it’s come to be used, as a playground/Internet/water cooler slur. The rest of language gets a little fuzzy. Last night someone posted the above sentiment and I realized that this kind of thing is like pornography — you know it when you see it.

This one really cut me. “EXACTLY!” I practically yelled at the phone when I read the words, stark white on black, no cute old-fashioned lady illustration required to send it over the top. YES, I wanted to yell, I KNOW THAT WHEN SOMEONE ISN’T OF AVERAGE OR ABOVE AVERAGE INTELLIGENCE, THEY MIGHT NOT REALIZE IT. NO-FUCKING-DUH.

Here’s the thing. No one is going to “take back” the word retarded like queer, bitch and even nigger have been reclaimed, because there really isn’t the same kind of community around developmental disabilities. Not on a widespread basis, anyway.

By the very nature of the disability, a person with Down syndrome or another intellectual disability is bound to miss a slur, a slight, a nasty word. Like how dead people don’t know they are dead.

That is why parents like Jisun Lee take this kind of thing so seriously, and it’s probably why the word retard is the last big dig making the rounds in high schools and bars. This isn’t a community equipped to defend itself. Hence, what some consider an overreaction to the use of all related terminology.

I don’t like censorship. As a friend and I discussed the other day, I don’t want people to be afraid to talk around me, to cringe if they use the word dumb. I’m not sure I want to give it up, either. Words are powerful and we are their stewards and the best thing we can do is try to use them with care — acknowledging that in the heat of the moment, we all say things we later regret. As I like to say, it’s all a work in progress.

The best thing we can do is talk about it.

As usual, the person with the clearest vision on all of it is none other than Sophie.

Not long ago, she came home and reported to me that someone at school had used the S word.

“Oh dear,” I said. “That’s pretty strong.”

And then I had a feeling that Sophie wasn’t talking about the word shit.

“Can you say the word?” I asked.

“I can whisper it,” she said. “It’s a pretty bad one.”

I put my ear next to her mouth and she whispered.

“Stupid.” She looked a little ashamed, and shook her head like she couldn’t believe it.

Smart kid.

I don’t hear it so much anymore, so I was surprised.

“I’m so retarded!” a brand-new employee said the other day, struggling to open a door with a new key card. We were coming back from lunch, and as we walked to the security office to get the key card, I’d winced a little, thinking about how colorful my own language had been over tacos and iced tea. This girl had barely said crap. (Literally — that’s the only off-color thing I’d heard.)

But she had no problem ripping loose with the R word. Usually that’s when I whip out my phone to show off pictures of Sophie. It was the girl’s first day; I let it go, sighing as I returned to my desk.

People aren’t using the R word so much anymore — not around me, anyway. And that’s good. But it’s not enough. Not using that word is only a start. The other night, a dear old friend made a reference to “special needs” — and not in a good way. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to — I heard her voice catch on the other end of the phone and winced myself, upset that she was uncomfortable.

We all do it, all the time. I do it, despite attempts to be aware. As a journalist I’m not super down with the word police. But I worry about what our words say about our thoughts and intentions, corny as that sounds.

Not so long ago, a guy I know was doing PR for the local Special Olympics chapter — until he tweeted a joke about special ed. The response was swift and firm — Jason Rose no longer has the bragging rights of working on behalf of the kids with special needs that he dissed.

In a perfect world, we’d all be so swift to respond. And we’d all have as much clout.

Before I had Sophie, the R word was one-dimensional, a meaningless put down. Down syndrome, special needs, special ed — all terms on paper. Sophie brings it all to life for me, and I figure  my — our — small contribution is bringing it all to life for others, too. Hence the Facebook status updates, the Instagram photos, the blog posts, the radio commentaries, and the occasional newspaper story, when I can convince my boss.

In-person introductions work pretty well, too. I think I’ll bring Sophie to the office next week during Spring Break.

Last night was the regional competition for Special Olympics cheerleading. Sophie’s team was robbed, I tell you. Robbed.

“Tempe’s bringin’ down the house!” the announcer yelled at one point during their routine, and it was true — the entire crowd was rooting for the navy-and-white clad cheerleaders, who had the best moves of the night (no, I’m not one bit biased),  the tiniest one staying on stage a few seconds after everything was over, landing the splits, hating to abandon the limelight. Such as it was in a falling apart, fluorescent-lit rec center in a shitty part of town.

Sophie and her teammates didn’t care; they were thrilled with their silver medals (everyone goes home with either silver or gold; Mesa “beat” them) and a giant cookie. But a lot of the parents looked pissed and I had to laugh.

Ah, the injustice.

The injustice of having a kid with a disability, right? That’s what you’re thinking. That’s what I think — some days. But last night, looking around that gym (before the silver medal fiasco), I felt a strange sense of privilege. It’s an honor to attend these events. I’m sure there are back stories with much different narratives, but to a person, I didn’t see a single member of that audience last night who looked like they felt sorry for themselves. That’s got to be the point of Special Olympics, right? To give not only the participants but those who love them a sense of pride. Some dignity.

I’ve only been to a handful of Special Olympics events so far, and to be honest, the results (and I’m not speaking of Sophie’s athletic prowess) have been mixed. But last night, I got it. I got why they do it, why I do it, why Sophie does it. Looking at these family members and friends looking at their kids dressed in polyester and ribbons, yelling and dancing to the best of their abilities and yes, sometimes looking really goofy doing it, I got it. There were more moments of pure joy in that gymnasium last night than most of us gather in a lifetime.

Today is “Say the Word to End the Word” Day — an awkwardly named but well-meaning attempt to get people to ditch the world retarded for another word, respect. I’ll be spending the evening at a Special Olympics basketball game, watching Sophie and her team cheer at halftime.

Lucky me.

And as for that silver medal? Just wait for the state championships.