Without noticing it, four years have passed since Charlie decided to make his grand entrance into the world. Four entire years. Birthdays are always a little bitter-sweet with a special needs child–knowing where they should be and comparing it with where they are can be a tough pill to swallow. I’m lucky that this year it was easier than the last and I suspect that it will get easier as the years pass.

I can say, without a doubt, that three was the best year yet. So many times I have exclaimed over what a person he’s become and how it is truly enjoyable to spend time with him. School has been incredible at opening him up and letting his personality show itself–granted, it’s not always the cutest personality, but even that is worth celebrating.

Three was the year of communication. He gestures more purposefully, uses his eyes and vocal chords to make a point, he taps to get your attention and motions for help.  He is beginning to show signs of being able to communicate using augmentative communication–a door has been cracked and is waiting to be flung open.

Three was a year of affection. When I pick him up from school, he smiles wide. He leans towards others to be held by them. He smiles when you kiss him and throws a hand over you when he snuggles up in bed. He gestures to be picked up when Dad greets him in the evenings.

Three was a year of becoming his own person–he likes ketchup, which no one else in the family eats. He has friends at school that I don’t know and have never met. He manages himself in the world without his mom or dad for hours on end. He likes to turn the TV up loud and if you turn it down, he’ll wait til you leave and then turn it up again. He likes to hold his own spoon or fork although he’s still not good at getting food ON it in the first place.

The baby in him is slowly fading and I adore watching the real him emerge. There really is nothing more amazing than seeing the boy who was locked in his body beginning to emerge.

Do we have things yet to accomplish? Of course. Is it all perfect? Not at all.

But it is good. Very good. And that is more than enough for me.

Happy birthday, Charlie.

Ellen wrote a post that went viral recently about what happens when you ask people to stop using the words “retarded” and “retard.” She wasn’t over-dramatic or emotional in her quest, but many of the responses were. One of the things that interested me the most was the vast number of people who defended their use of the words–despite being told that it was offensive.

The word retarded started off innocently enough–it’s main function is/was to describe someone with below average intelligence. But somewhere along the line everyone decided they were a doctor and started calling pretty much anything retarded–a friend, a dog, or a store with an obnoxious return policy. As the word became common one thing was clear–it was no compliment. While we can all agree that it would be in poor form to insult someone who had a condition like cancer or muscular dystrophy, but for some reason we think it’s OK to mock those whose disabilities affect the mind. Retarded is no longer a clinical term, but slang for stupid, ridiculous, loser, and worthless.

I do believe getting these words out of your vocabulary is a process. I know I used these terms plenty before I knew that they hurt people.  I’m not taking issue with people who don’t know, but I’d like to argue back for a minute with all the people who defend their right to use the words when they’ve been told that they’re hurtful.

Enjoying marching bands at a parade

Some people cite freedom of speech when they use the word. Fair enough, free speech is a vital part of our democracy and one of the things Americans hold most near and dear. Censorship is bad–I completely agree. But just because you CAN say a word, doesn’t mean you should. I mean, I could wear a string bikini, but I’m not about to do that to the world. The law gives me the right to print naked pictures of myself, refuse medical treatment, and ride in the back of the pick up truck on the interstate. Still, not gonna do it. Choice is also a critical component to our democracy.

Some people claim that we’re eliminating too  many words–that soon there will be nothing left. It is estimated that there are a quarter of a million words in the English language. If you are unable to come up with anything besides retard and retarded then I would suggest that maybe you are not in a position to question the intelligence of others. Just a thought.

Then there’s the crowd that claims, “if I’m using the word in the right context, I think it’s fine.” Now, as someone who was actually required to use the term “retarded” on the job, I can assure you can we never once handled it as callously and casually as I hear people using it. We usually abbreviated it when in use around colleagues.  I was also aware that I, as a teacher, did not have the right to label someone “retarded”–that was a medical diagnosis required by a doctor. And while this is a valid, medical diagnosis, when someone says they want to buy some “retarded sunglasses” I highly doubt they are contemplating the intellect of that pair of sunglasses. Perhaps you have the best of intentions, but the number of times that word has been hurled across a playground has made it a slur plain and simple.

And since I’m ranting today, let me add a two more things that irk me about the word and its use:

1. Retarded is spelled with two d’s and NOT with two t’s. Called something retarded while simultaneously misspelling it is the type of irony that that is best saved for novels.
2. Every once a while, a person will get really inventive and in addition using the word retard or retarded, they’ll also slow their speech or bend their wrist in manner usually seen in those with physical disabilities. News flash: a physical disability is not the same as a mental one. I taught many a student labeled “retarded” and most showed absolutely no outward sign of their disability. I know high school science was a long time ago, but they have proven that the mouth and the brain are not the same organ, so please don’t make me question your intelligence while you’re trying to question someone else’s.

More than anything, I hope my beautiful son is never called a "retard.

Mother nature has a way of making you forget what you were like when you were pregnant. But here I am again and I realize that this is exactly what I was like the last time.

You see, my uterus has eaten my brain. Day in and day out I’m consumed with baby stuff.

First, there’s the worry factors–are there really two babies in there? At what point should I start purchasing stuff like I’m having two babies? Twenty weeks? Twenty-four? Have I taken my vitamins today? Have I had enough protein? Am I gaining enough weight? What’s that feeling in my stomach? Is it normal?

There’s also the medical-related thoughts–what size our my babies today? What size will they be next week? Can I find a developmental picture of this week? Next? What about other women pregnant at this same time? Is the size of my stomach normal?

And then there’s the more abstract wonderings–about mini vans, sleeping arrangements, and dressing twins in matching clothes. I’ll cruise websites wondering if you can get the same outfit, but in different colors? And what about activities? What do people DO with regular children? How do you know what activities to put them in? Charlie had therpy–that was his activity.

And so on and so on.

It’s a wonder I get anything done around here.