ninanevermore: (Motherhood)
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“Where do ninjas learn to be ninjas?” I asked my son.

He was holding a one-inch-tall red ninja warrior made of Legos that had arrived unassembled in Sweet Pea’s Easter basket. Now the tiny assassin had been put together, and it had spent the evening menacing the toy plush gray cat that Sweet Pea does not like and insists that I sleep with so he doesn’t have to (he does not want it hanging out with his other toys).

Lego Ninja


“They learn at Ninja Class,” he said in a low, menacing voice.

“Is the Ninja Class at your school? I thought you just learned reading and stuff.”

“Yes, but it’s a secret. It’s under the gym floor.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Under the gym. The Ninjas come out at night when no can see them.”

That sounds like Ninjas all right.

“Have you seen them?”

“No. They don’t like to be seen.”

Very ninja of them, also. The whole not-being-seen thing.

“How do you know they’re there?”

He switched back to his regular Sweet Pea voice and smiled since he was about to let me in on the joke. “I haven’t seen them. I just made them up. There aren’t really ninjas at my school under the gym. I just wanted you to think there were. Did you think there were ninjas at my school?”

“I was a little worried. Ninjas are scary. I’m glad you made them up and they aren’t real.”

“Don’t worry. There are no ninjas.”

“Good.”



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