Ninja Training: The Art of Disguise

Aargh! What a cute little pirate child eating her food so sweetly. Huh, what's that? A shuriken!? What is this? AAAAAAAAAaaahhh... *croak of death*

This is the sound of a pirate being fooled by my baby ninja's brilliant trickery. Truly she is learning to master the art of disguise.

Kung Fu Baby

Are you looking at me? I see you looking at me. Hold on their while I ready my killer Kung Fu stance...er... sit...

And then we found the coolest thing ever:

...and Code Name Alice shat her pants.

Teething

When you're teething, everything looks like a gum soothing possibility.

The lacquered wooden table, the rim of a chair, chess pieces, playing cards, headphones, glasses, all are variations on the basic tooth extruding algorithm. In fact, this is a fantastic representation of mechanical adaptation and learning. Code Name Alice grabs something, tests it's basic attributes against a set of requirements such as texture, size and malleability, and, once the object has exhausted all measure of usability, she exchanges it for another. It's a great system and I applaud her ingenuity but, lately, her audacity is becoming problematic.

Sleep Deprivation Ninja: Hey baby girl! What's up? Ooh, you want to give daddy a hug? Ah, that's the sweetest thing, a nice big hug. AAAAAAHHHH, she's got my neck!

Code Name Alice: Num-num-num!

Solar Dancer: Oh, you're such a baby. Give her up... Hey sweety... ahhhHHGH MA NOBES!

CNA: Num-num-num!

SDN: Um... do you mean nose. It looks like she has your nose.

SD: Mai NOBES!!!

CNA: Num-num-num!

This is more problematic when we try to socialize her with folks her age. She has been trying to eat all her friends... and strangers.

Next ninja lesson for CNA: Bite of Tranquility (it's gentle but effective)

Time

When I was in college, I had so much free time that I used to laugh and scoff at the notion of the 9-5 stereotypical television character life. I couldn't believe people would stand for such drudgery. I was working as a waiter, 3 days a week, 5 hour shifts, making more than enough money to pay rent and have fun. I even saved money and had numerous hobbies. School was mostly part-time and, having made hobbies of each subject many quarters before taking the courses, school was a breeze. It was easier than working. I could go into class dazed and sleepy, keeping my head in dreamspace all day. Nobody cared.

My favorite hobby was, and always will be, to dream. Sleep was a given. I would sleep 10-12 hours a night, awakening in a slow daze that would allow me to remember epic dreams. Some of them I would write down, parts anyway, but I would always stop short of a full dream log, lest I spend all day writing and remembering, living in the memory of a dream.

Now, even unemployed, I'm working almost 60 hours a week. One full-time job for a decent pay became a full-time job of looking for work, committing to a 20-hour a week startup on nights and weekends, pending pay on project completion and revenue share, doing countless freelance jobs, all of it equating to more time working, less work getting done and less pay as a result. But if the moonlighting startup succeeds, we'll have it made. That might be retirement in a year. We'll see.

I've been unemployed for over two weeks and although I've stolen time away from promised availability and auctioned interview time to walk around the lake and join in story time with my beautiful wife and daughter, I'm so beaten by the lack of free personal time that I can't enjoy it fully. I love the brief moments I can just hold my baby girl, even when she is sleeping. I don't want to put her down. I could just hold her all night and push the rest of the world away, ignore the phone, purge my email, disconnect.

Someday, all of this work will pay off. Someday, we will be able to work only for fun. When that day comes, I'm going to be spending all my time with my baby girl, traveling the world, playing music, reading books, writing epic dreams and living them as well.

Oh, night time...

Oh, baby girl, how difficult you make the night time.

When I come home at 11pm, after being gone all day, all I want is to hold you high in the air and laugh with you. We could make the mome raths and borogoves envious of our joy. The sacred Navi stone of the northern nomads, said to forever point toward paradise, would divert its perfect compass precision toward us, just for a glimse of inspiration, returning only to find that paradise is not where it once thought. We could make the stars toggle a morse code glimmer, shouting jokes into the midnight sky, sharing the fun with the rest of the universe.

And you fold and bend like a fortune fish against my torso, professing that I must be happy. You roll over and nearly fall off. I must be in love. You look up at me as we walk and stare with such wonder and awe. I want to sing to you. I want to show you the beauty of the world--your little smile and sweet eyes in a mirror. I wish for camera eyes of my own to capture what only I can see--these looks that you won't give a camera, only meant for me.

Against my chest, you wiggle and burbble, spraying raspberry kisses and looking around the room frantically. It must be playtime because daddy is here. It must be time to run around and giggle. Isn't it? Can't we jump and fly, become airplanes and rockets, bullfrogs and kangaroos. Listen, daddy, I've been working on my creekity croak. And you inhale with a long, bubbly croak like the smoothest, softest bubble wrap, gently being squeezed, one bubble at a time, in a perfect pitch stream. Are you a frog, a baby raptor, a mythical beast that no mortal has ever heard and lived? How much I struggle to resist mimicking your sound, encouraging it. I love when you make that sound.

I wish it were time to play. I want only to play, to laugh, to make silly mouth faces and noises with you. But it's late. Your mamma wants to sleep. I must do the same. You must do the same. If only we could stay awake all the time...

Kids and Drugs

When I play with Code Name Alice, I sometimes have flashbacks to high school drug trips.

We're on the couch and she's laying on my chest, giggling.

"Check this out." She psychically projects, "I can eat your shirt."

"Hahahahutha... you're eating my shirt... hahaha."
"huthuthuthahahahah.... I'm eating your shirt... hahahahahaha!"

I start shaking my head back and forth with reckless abandon, making farting noises with my lips. "Hahaha... I can move my head from side to side..."
"hahauhtthuuthhahahthuth! That's the funniest thing ever! haha. I can't stop laughing."

"huthut.... Dude..."

"Hahahahahahahahahahahah... you said dude! hahahahahahahahah."

"Oh, I'm loosing it."

We digress into creatures that can only laugh as a form of communication.

Burbles

We've started singing the alphabet song to Code Name Alice. Whenever she's upset or tired and having trouble finding her Zen point, we just sing it and she immediately smiles and calms down.

She loves the different sounds and for our own sake, we make up new tunes with the letters.

Since she was born, I've been experimenting with different sounds. I pop my lips, snap my tongue, go through the phonetic list. But our favorite is the rolling letter 'L'. She always gets a kick out of it when I stick out my tongue in "La la la llllllrlrlrlrlrlrlrlrlrlrlr" and rat-a-tat like a rolling machine gun or a gentle kitty cat. It's such a wonderfully versatile sound. It can be soft and quiet or hard and loud. It can represent fun, love, curiosity, puzzlement... the list goes on.

Anyway, she sits with rapped attention when I do this and recently, she's been trying to mimic the sound. But she doesn't have the tongue control (it's a pretty advanced move), so she decided the best way to make a similar noise is to put her lips together and blow a burble. It's awesome. That was a face and sound I had not made with her; she found it on her own. And it's actually a decent substitute for the rolling L, at least on a basic level. They both have a repetitive motor sound and just as much versatility. So, now, when I give her the rolling L, she gives me the spittle flinging raspberry burble.

I'm trying to show her the difference and she seems to be catching on. But she still can't make a good "L" sound :)

She did, however, manage to psychically tell me that she isn't worried about having pictures posted since she can keep her anonymity by growing at will:

Daddy = Play!

4 months ago...

INT. SLEEP DEP. FORTRESS - DAY

Sleep Deprivation Ninja is huddled at the belly of his very preggo wife, giving the child some quality daddy voice time.

Sleep Deprivation Ninja [in deep gruff voice]: Grrrrrrrrr... mrrroowwarrraw... blaaaaahbbubbubub-ppppllleleleeleeee!
Solar Dancer: Um, I think maybe you should just talk to the baby in your normal voice... and use real words.
SDN [resonant]: Jaabo! Rallalalalala Solkio! GRRRRRRRAHHHH! mumumumum... I eat youuuuu!
SD: You are not going to eat the baby.
SDN: Of course not, but baby doesn't know what I'm saying. It just sounds like playful stuff.

Present Day... Present Time... HAHAHAHAHA [obs. reference]

INT. SLEEP DEP. FORTRESS - NIGHT

Enter Sleep Deprivation Ninja to comfort Code Name Alice, who has just awoken from a dream. Since she is only 3-months-old, she speaks telepathically to her dad.

Code Name Alice: Daddy, I have bad dream... monster try to eat me...
Sleep Deprivation Ninja: *smiles wide* That's MEEEEE!

McProjectile™

We are just leaving downtown after hanging out at the Seattle Center and on the way to the car Solar Dancer decides she wants to stop at McDonald's® to get a coffee.

Sleep Deprivation Ninja: "You want to get coffee from McGonad's?! They are the epitome of my disgust. They are my vomit manifested as a franchise."
Solar Dancer: "But I have a coupon and I want to try it. Besides, their coffee won a taste test contest."
SDN: "hmm, peer reviewed?"
Solar Dancer: "Done by a different company. Blind test."

I gasp and grumble. This still doesn't seem like a convincing argument to me. Sure they won a taste test. It's fucking roasted beans. Coffee is about as simple as it gets. Now, if they won a contest for the best vegan chocolate truffles, I would be impressed. And it's not like they even grow their own beans. Everyone gets them from Columbia or Sumatra or some other place where poor families pick things. But I'm not going to fight it. People love their coffee.

I grew up on fast food. Happy Meals™ and milkshakes were foundations of the essential food groups. These days, I can't even stomach the thought of any of it. I haven't been inside a Micky D's in so many years, I actually don't remember the last time. Given my inner aversion to this type of business, I approach with wary (and weary) hesitation.

When we enter, a waft of gut-plugging, cholesterol-saturated air fills our lungs. An air filtration unit blows a light, Freon-conditioned breeze our way, lest we faint from overexposure to the natural heart-racing fumes of the restaurant. Even a ninja stutters his movements in shock of such an experience. I falter for a moment but regain composure quickly with a moment of inner meditation. The greatest power a human has is the ability to adapt--and we adapt very well, sometimes too well.

While Solar Dancer waits in line, I check Code Name Alice's unmentionables as she has been indicating that it's time to do so. Indeed, she's wet and needs a change. Well, this is a major food chain so they will have a fold-out changing table in the men's room, yes? Don't count on it. Not here. Bastards.

OK, I'm going to change her on one of the tables then. Don't worry about baby buns touching the surface your hamburger buns (if you are the type to eat off the table), I've got a portable changing pad. I get the baby girl unwrapped, all prepped to catch anything she might decide to dish out. But here is where the makers of plastic pads get it wrong.

Code name Alice, the ninja apprentice, the fast-food fighter supreme, the super-sized tater-tot, emits a mighty howl from her mouth and blows a banshee raspberry out of her ass. I ninja-dodge and it goes flying passed my head into the kitchen. Loud screams erupt as the thing ricochets around the interior of the building, bouncing off anything perpendicular to the floor, leaving a trail as it goes, somehow magically growing like a snowball shot down the side of Avalanche Mountain. What is it picking up? How is it growing in speed and size? It must be pulling in the surrounding refuse and artificial sweeteners, the shit spewing forth from people who are gabbing while eating their burgers and fries, the molecules of artificial proteins and simple sugars floating in the air, thick as grease, unrelenting to the weak air filtration unit.

And now I see it. The small box on the wall that's trying so hard to pump fresh, clean, breathable air into the room is sputtering, smoking, getting ready to pop, the sides of the grill so caked with buttery fat and lab-tested smokey flavor, it just can't handle the additional crap that was just unleashed into its precariously delicate environment. This is the straw that breaks the back, the drop of rain that fills the pool, the shit that hits the fan. And it hits hard.

The fan wheezes and hisses like an old smoker taking a final breath, coughing wet and hoarse. In a rip-roaring inferno of sickly air, smoke and fumes, all the thick particles it had spent so long filtering out and containing are pouring back into the room. The people who sit closest to the vent gasp in disgust. They weep as if hit with a SWAT team teargas raid. They drop their burgers and cover their mouths to hold in their last fresh tasting breath.

On the other side of the room, a portly man with a thick mustache holds his burger up high and screams, "There's shit in this burger!"

Ninja + Sleepy Baby = Exercise Opportunity

One of the best parts about being a ninja dad (and having a ninja child) is that I can integrate putting my daughter to sleep as part of my exercise routine.
She will only fall asleep in one of two ways:

1. attached to her mother's warm, soft, gentle, pillow-like boob.
2. being heaved and thrown as her dad bounces around the fortress with babe in arm, practicing deadly chops and weapon extractions to destroy robotic representations of his enemies.

The second option is more fun and offers an increased handicap to my workout. Of course, these days, my most entertaining adventures are with her in my arms.

As I swing side to side and leap from wall to rafter, she smiles up and closes her eyes. They open again and again, only to fall once more to the gentle rhythm of ninja battle. Someday, if she can find a battle exciting enough to stay awake through, she will become the greatest warrior of all time.

How do you get your kid to sleep?

First Word

Ok, it's official. Code Name Alice just said her first word.
Of course, she's been talking telepathically to me for a while and making all kinds of noises, naming everything she sees... but today she said a real word.

Sleep Deprivation Ninja: Hey, little honey dart, what's new?
Code Name Alice: Iglooooo!
SDN: Homogeneous beverages! She just said 'igloo'!!!1!!!!one!11!!!
Solar Dancer: Um... I think that was just....
SDN: Hold your tongue! Don't ruin this moment for me. She said 'igloo'. That means something. What 'igloo', sweet shuriken? Where do I find this.... 'igloo'?!
CNA: Igggloooo! heheha...ppppffft. geeeehahaha.
SDN: Yes, igloo, I hear you baby, but what about it. it's funny... ok, funny igloo but why, what's it all about? Where did you hear about this igloo....?
CNA: heheheeeeeeeeehahah.

And that was it. She didn't say anything more about the igloo. It's a mystery the world may never solve.

Since she didn't want to discuss igloos anymore, I had to consult my 3 favorite information sources: Wikipedia on Igloos, Instructables on Building a Quinzee (kina like an igloo), and Google Images

And then it hit me. I stumbled upon a picture of the inside of an igloo:


Just look at it. I don't know about where you are but it's pretty freaking hot in here today. Ninjas can rock out the cold like inuits, so I'm looking at this like a little slice of paradise. And, WTF? That's a huge igloo... I could live in that. It's an igloo mansion. You can only see the top floor and the front hallway but behind the camera is like a mile of igloo housing with 18 bedrooms and 16 bathrooms, 4 livingrooms, a library, a billiard room, etc... it's really cool...(I can take the pun-ishment)
And then it really hit me. What else does this remind you of (from a babies perspective)?
I'm going to leave it at that.

BTW, on another note, I'm working on some kick-ass ninja blogger awards since Tootsie Farkelpants over at Vintage Thirty was kind enough to pass me along a badge (albeit second hand) and there are some folks out there I think flog some major blog. Be prepared to be recognized, beotches.

Cleanliness is Next to Vomitous

I'm home from work and excited to see Code name Alice. She's awash with good humor, giggling and cooing with the pleasure only the innocent can truly convey.

We have a chaise lounge next to the window (I know I sound all french and hip when I say that but we got it from Ikea). I pick her up and plop her, tummy-side down, on my chest, laying us both on the half couch, half chair hybrid, the blinds tilted such that we can see the evening sky.

"Hi daddy!" She says in her smile.

"Hey, Baby Girl!" My clever retort is awesome.

Her clever retort is even more awesome.

"Oh, daddy, your shirt is sooooo clean, it smells like... graBLAAHAHAH-glub-glub-bluh!" Her mouth opens wide and she's suddenly a faucet, spouting yogurt by the pint all over me.

"Burp-clo-o-o-o-o-o-o-th!" I scream, like it's a fire-drill and her mother comes running over and heaves a clean cloth. "If you're gonna spew, Baby Girl, spew in this." She laughs a little but not at my clever reference to Wayne's World.

"Oh, no daddy," Baby Girl announces. "Don't you remember? Clean clothes make me nauseous."

I dab at her face, which looks like she tried to eat a bowl of sour cream out of a dog dish and she smiles and giggles like it's the coolest thing that happened to her all day. What a wonderful age, wherein vomiting is such a new and fun experience.

I make unworthy attempts to clean the thick sludge from my shirt. The cloth is now useless and I quickly give up, taking off the shirt and laying her down on my bare chest.

"That's better daddy. Now you just smell like daddy."
"That's OK, baby girl. You can puke on me all you want."

We stare out the window at the trees and watch the wind blow at the birds who just float with it, gliding along, in and out. It's getting dark enough that the stars are just becoming visible. I wonder if she can see them and what she thinks of it all. She has such a curiosity for the outdoors. Whenever I take her outside, she names all the trees, pushing away from my chest so she can get a better view, flipping her head around and aside to see what's coming next. Times like this, she lays her head flat on the side, pulls herself in closer and the view is perfect.

We drift off for a nap and another ninja adventure unfolds.

Wii Fit Ninja

According to Wii Fit, I am an unbalanced yoga master. How can this be, you ask?
Apparently, yoga masters are not so good at skiing. Yoga masters are really good at breathing and standing still, just like ninjas.

I'm the Sleep Deprivation Ninja, I don't ski. So why couldn't you just say that I'm a ninja, albeit lacking sleep? Was my ninjutsu not good enough for you?
Here's how it played out:

Sleep Deprivation Ninja: "Breathing huh, I can do that." [breaths]
Wii Fit: "You are a Yoga Master."
SDN: "Tell me something I don't know. Let's try some other games..."
...
SDN: "phew, that skiing is a bitch."
Wii Fit: "You are Unbalanced."

This is where my two month old apprentice says, "Bust out the Shinobi daddy!"
Yes, she's two months and she can talk. She is so badass, when she was born, she c-sectioned herself out of the womb with her awesome ninja claws and stitch her mom back up with nothing but mental force of will. Give that a vision for a sec; it won't be nearly as awesome as reality.

Anyway, so without thinking, sleep deprived as I am, I flick my wrist and the wiimote spins in a death shot toward our HDTV. In retrospect, I would have breathed a little before listening to my daughter, as any good ninja would do. But I am the Sleep Deprivation Ninja, I act on instinct.

Luckily, my skilled apprentice learned to fly last week and she zips up to the TV, just in time to catch the wiimote in her mouth. Then she lands on the Wii balance board:

Wii Fit: "You are a Zen Ninja"