That’s because I have a retarded kid.

(continued at right)

It’s all gotten so confusing, and no more so than when it comes to Sophie. It’s not funny to make fun of your kid with Down syndrome. I know; I’ve tried. We took the girls to have their pictures taken with Santa (OK, so I’m not a very good Jew) and in the picture, Sophie looks, well, retarded.

I pointed that out to a friend, who looked like he wanted to kill himself. Or me.

I’ve thought about it a lot, and I might have figured it out. It’s not funny to make fun of your retarded kid – or, really, any retarded person – because there’s no way that kid or person will ever be in on the joke. By the nature of the exact situation you’re making fun of, they can’t make fun, too. Sure, they’ll laugh along, but will they really get it?

So far, Sophie doesn’t. Of course, that could be because she’s two. I’m planning to hold out hope as long as possible. I could use a laugh.

Ever since I had my kids, but particularly since Sophie was born, I feel like someone turned off a filter in my head. Lights are too bright, sounds are too loud. I can’t bear to read a story in the paper about an abused kid, but I can’t tear my eyes away, either.

Before Sophie, it was sad when a kid was sick. Now I can’t watch my formerly favorite guilty pleasure television show, E.R., because I recognize the string of medical terms they’re shouting over a patient. I really try not to feel sorry for myself. Yeah, Sophie had open heart surgery when she was three- months- old, but her heart is OK, now. And yeah, last month she was crying bloody tears after eye surgery, but the surgery was minor, and I sat in the waiting room at Phoenix Childrens Hospital during the 15 minute procedure and watched parents carting their children to chemotherapy in little red wagons and wondered how on earth they find the strength to do that?

So you understand that I can use a little levity in my life. And I want you to have some, too, because I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, or for Sophie. I don’t want you to ask how it’s been on Annabelle, her four-year-old sister, or how this whole thing is affecting my marriage.

Recently, a guy I work with pulled me aside and said, “Look, a lot of times, in staff meetings, people use the word retarded. Want me to ask them to stop?”

“No,” I replied, honestly. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t even notice it.”

And I hadn’t. But from that day on, I’ve noticed every time anyone, anywhere, has used the word retarded. And then I’ve noticed how often, just afterward, they wince.

Do we have to talk about that? Let’s just have a laugh.

I’m trying. I used to read constantly. I still read, but now it’s usually those horrible parenting magazines or Sandra Boynton books. In the middle of the night, when I can’t sleep, I sneak into the bathroom and read the books I want to read -- gobbling them like cookies in the near dark. I love Augusten Burroughs, because nothing’s off limits for that guy.

But one night, I had to come to terms with the fact that there are some things that are now off limits for me.

I was reading Burroughs’ latest book, a collection of essays, and I came to one that delved into one of his favorite topics, cruising at bars. He recounted a tale a friend told him about going out drunk and picking up a guy, waking up the next morning and realizing, to his horror, that his conquest had Down syndrome.

Perched on the closed toilet I thought I was going to vomit. I put down the book, climbed into bed, lay there and thought, `Well, at least that guy with Down syndrome was high- functioning enough to go out to a bar by himself. And to know he was gay. That’s something.’

That’s not enough for a person – me – who two years ago would have cringed but giggled at the image of Augusten Burroughs’ friend realizing he fucked a retard.

And that’s part of it. Not only is that stuff not funny anymore, but I sicken myself at the thought that it ever was funny to me. What kind of a horrible excuse for a human being am I?

Wait. It gets worse.

When Sophie was about two- weeks- old, I suddenly remembered Pink Slip. Pink Slip is an instructional video made in the 70s. Completely serious at the time, but now a joke making the rounds on the Internet. A friend of mine got a copy years ago and we watched it again and again and howled. I’d never known anyone with Down syndrome (I didn’t even watch that show with Corky in it. Retarded people have always made me nervous). I’m not even sure I knew that Jill, the main character in the video, had it – just that she was kind of slow. The video portrays Jill’s entire family – in incredible detail, including her father– teaching Jill about her period. It even includes a scene in which Susie, Jill’s older sister, pulls down her pants to reveal her own thick maxi-pad.

Shit, I thought, staring at my new baby. I’m going to have to get a copy of Pink Slip for myself when Sophie hits puberty. Really. This is a kid who likes to chew on dirty socks. How am I going to teach her about menstruation?