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.

“I need to tell you I’m sorry,” she said. “Do you know why?”

I did.

Back up 20 minutes. I was having a pleasant conversation with this woman and her date, a writer in from LA to do a travel story, and we were chatting about — oh god, I can’t remember what. It’s been two days, my memory doesn’t last that long anymore. Anyhow, something struck all of us as dumb and to tell you the truth, these days I’ll see it coming before it’s out of your mouth. It’s as though the sound (and there was considerable background noise that night — lots of people, kids screaming, a fire roaring, DJ blasting, traffic) fades away and the person’s mouth gets super big and the words come out really slowly.

“That’s so retarded.”

She said it. I didn’t flinch, and neither did she, but for less than a split second, I saw it — the “OH FUCK, I JUST SAID THAT’S SO RETARDED TO THE MOTHER OF A KID WITH DOWN SYNDROME AND NOT JUST ANY MOTHER OF A KID WITH DOWN SYNDROME, THIS ONE BITCHES ABOUT EXACTLY THIS ALL THE TIME. OH FUCK” look on her face.

And then the conversation continued — seamlessly, as though nothing had happened, I think the date said something like, “Yeah, that’s so stupid” and after a few minutes we all drifted into conversations with other people the way you do at gallery openings.

For me, the worst part these days isn’t when someone says it. It’s when they realize they just said it. And so that half a split second after she said it was what bugged me. But like I said, it was kind of a crazy night, and I moved past it because really, what are you going to do? It’s true that often I call people out, point out what they just said. But sometimes you don’t need to say a word.

This was one of those times.

Twenty minutes later I turned around and there she was.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I said. “Really, I mean it. It’s okay.”

“No, I do. It was a horrible thing to say,” she continued, the tears welling up. “I can’t believe I said it, I’m so upset that I said it.”

The date walked up and confirmed this, said she was so embarrassed he’d told her that if she didn’t apologize, he was going to do it for her. I winced.

“I hate being that person who makes anyone feel uncomfortable about saying anything,” I told them, even though all three of us knew that it’s more complicated than that. She’ll probably never use the word again, at least not without thinking about that night at the gallery. And that’s exactly what I want, right? For people to be aware of how wrong it is to use the word retarded?

Yeah, it is. But it’s not a sweet victory, or even bittersweet. Instead, the whole thing left kind of a bad taste in my mouth. Of course there’s no turning back now — I’m not about to embrace the word retard, to “take it back.” (I hate that shit — I mean, really, who ever wanted the word cunt in the first place?!)

I’ve set the wheels in motion and now my mere presence during cocktail party chatter is enough to bring a grown woman to tears and now I’m not really sure what to say about it. I hope I didn’t ruin the rest of her night, because truly, she didn’t ruin mine. I just hope she knows that.

Actually, the honeymoon of the whole back-to-school-after-the-holidays-thing is officially over. That happened this morning. But that’s another story involving another Bad Mom situation: The debate over whether to allow the 5 and 7 year olds to drink their Carnation Instant Breakfast from a sippy cup. I’m sure I’ve already done permanent damage both physical and psychological (and I’m just talking about my husband) so I’ll let that one be its own blog post, someday. Maybe.

Back to last night. Sophie was exhausted. She napped on Monday but not on Tuesday and by 6, the day had caught up with her — and then some. Actually, she hit her second wind (third? fourth? fourteenth?) when I got home, but there was a fly in her ointment.

Annabelle and I had run into Deborah and Anna at aftercare, and decided it would be a swell idea to throw an impromptu dinner party, if you can call Safeway meatloaf and soup served on my all-but-covered-with-crap dining table any sort of a party.

Truth be told, Deborah and I have made parties out of far less. I always feel guilty, because she’s so groovy (e.g., the not-matching-but-went-together leopard coat and gloves she wore on a Tuesday night) but she is always gracious about my mess, both specific and cosmic.

That’s a real friend.

Usually, Sophie and Deborah are fast friends, but last night Sophie would have none of it. “STOP TALKING!” she kept telling Deborah, as we tried to catch up on holiday gossip and work news. All Sophie wanted to do was cuddle in peace, her chicken nuggets long ago gobbled, her eyes starting to flag. And she wanted to do it without background noise. (And I know what Ray will say, and he’s right.  Too much going on. Should have had a quiet night. But really, this was one — and you should have seen how happy Annabelle and Anna were to see one another….)

“She’s jealous,” I whispered over the top of Sophie’s head, carrying her off to bed. Even on a tired night, bed is a multi-layered ritual. This night, Anna was called in to choose the pajamas. (The “Sleepy Head” shirt and ballerina pants.) Sophie chose the diaper (Cookie Monster, of course), brushed her teeth, peed.

Deborah and I continued to chat quietly through all of it, and Sophie seemed more focused on her stuffed Piglet, til — as I was pulling her PJ shirt over her head — she looked up at me and quietly said, “You’re stupid.”

I snapped to.

“DID YOU JUST CALL ME STUPID?” I asked in a quiet but all-caps kind of voice.

“Yes,” came the tiny reply.

Sophie knows better. For a while, years ago, she’d get really hot and heavy with her current insult (for several months it was “YOU’RE MEAN!” usually directed at strangers in the mall who made the mistake of being in her general vicinity) but I’ve noticed she’s catching on faster these days.

Still, she has a hard time parting with “stupid,” mainly because she knows it really gets to us. Often, she aims it at Annabelle, who always cries.

We’ve had some big, huge time outs over it. For obvious reasons.

“OK, Sophie, you know we don’t call people stupid.” I paused. “At least, not to their faces.”

Deborah had to stand in the doorway, out of sight, shaking with laughter. I tried not to smile.

“You know, Sophie,” I said, “someday you might just understand the irony of calling people stupid.”

“Oh, I think she gets that now,” Deborah said. I’m sure she’s right.

Sophie is anything but stupid, and yet she faces a lifetime of the label — both to her face and behind her back. I grapple with the word. Not when it comes to my kids; they’re simply not to use it. But as I recounted the story to my mother today, I explained that there’s actually a whole movement — one I’m not so sure I like, given my desire to let people use the words they want to use, except for certain ones like “retarded” when it’s not a medical term, though that’s yet another blog, I suppose — against using words like stupid and idiot.

“And moron,” I added. “So what are we supposed to call people?”

We moved on to “nerd” and “dork” and the notion that those are now compliments. Never did answer the question.

In any case, I’ll schedule our next play date with Anna and Deborah for a time when Sophie’s a little better rested.

And maybe we should just call people by their names.