I particularly do not enjoy calling it the R-word (if you are not versed in this subject, the R-word s “retard”).

I much prefer picking on people for punctuation than word choice — after-fucking-all, I work at an alt weekly, the kind of fucking place we can use the F-word whenever we fucking want. (Although I like to tell young writers, “Just because you can use it doesn’t mean you should.” It’s a powerful, sometimes toxic tool.)

Anyhow, I don’t want to tell you what to say. And yet a couple years ago I found myself emailing a colleague, requesting that he refrain from tossing the R-word at staff meetings. When it became an issue, our boss backed him. I get it. Free speech and all that. (For the record, I don’t notice the guy using the word as much anymore.)

But I’m sitting here on the couch next to Sophie as I type this. Last night I watched her participate in rehearsals on the big stage for the Snow Queen performance this weekend. She did all the moves, followed directions, really rocked. But during a long stretch when she and the six other “sprites” sit cross-legged on the ground, watching the big girls dance, I noticed her mouth hanging open. And remembered how funny I used to think it was when a certain political writer at the paper called our state legislators “mouth breathers”.

And then there’s the fact that I took someone else (Jason Rose) to task for an unpleasant tweet earlier this week. Shouldn’t I say something even if I like the person? So yesterday, when a Facebook friend I’ve met once or twice in person — a sweet woman (if I’m not mistaken, she’s told me about her own special needs kid) posted a status update that said something to the effect of, “stare hard, retard,” I made a brief ecomment: a sad face.

I felt sad and yucky for the rest of the afternoon, even after the woman quickly apologized and took down the offending status update, as much for saying something as for what she said. This whole thing is exhausting.

I’d much rather discuss the fucking its/it’s rule.