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.