The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over Grammy’s backyard. It was a perfect spring day—the kind where even the bees seemed too relaxed to sting anyone. The scent of fresh grass mixed with the aroma of Grammy’s coffee as she sat in her lawn chair, sipping slowly, watching Sawyer enjoy his lunch of lentils, beans, and mashed potatoes.
Sawyer, 15 months old but with the battle-hardened soul of a warrior, sat atop his plastic horsey. He chewed thoughtfully, gazing at the world like a philosopher who had just discovered gravity.
Creighton, his partner in baby brilliance, was absent—off on a classified mission for the U.S. government, no doubt using his genius intellect to outwit terrorists.
Grammy sighed contentedly. A peaceful, uneventful afternoon.
Then Sawyer’s gaze snapped toward the bushes.
Grammy noticed. “Do you see something, Sawyer?” she asked.
Sawyer turned to her, eyes dark and determined. He nodded.
Then—NINJAS.
They burst from the bushes like angry squirrels, clad in black, moving with the silent grace of trained assassins. Grammy nearly dropped her coffee.
But Sawyer—Sawyer was ready.
Without hesitation, he executed two flawless backflips off his horsey, landing in a low battle stance. His diapered bottom hovered just above the ground as he narrowed his eyes.
“This far and no farther!” he declared. “You will not hurt my Grammy or DoDad!”
The ninjas hesitated. It was not every day they were threatened by a toddler.
Then, the battle began.
The backyard became a blur of tiny fists and ninja stars. Sawyer ducked, rolled, and leaped, delivering baby-powered punches that could knock down any normal man. The ninjas were good, but Sawyer was better.
One ninja came at him with a high kick. Sawyer countered with a spinning dodge and a well-placed bean-fueled punch to the stomach.
Another tried to strike from behind—Sawyer sensed it through the Force (or maybe just really good peripheral vision) and flipped over Grammy’s picnic table, landing behind the assailant. With a swift jab, the ninja stumbled.
Grammy, still holding her coffee, cheered from her chair. “That’s my boy! Show ‘em what a bean-eating toddler can do!”
For several minutes, the yard echoed with the sounds of fury and mashed-potato-fueled athleticism. The ninjas fought well, but Sawyer was unstoppable.
Finally, after a particularly dramatic mid-air spinning kick, the last ninja hit the ground. Their leader, clutching his bruised ribs, signaled for retreat.
The ninjas licked their wounds (figuratively, of course) and slunk back into the bushes from whence they came, disappearing into the shadows.
The battle was won.
Sawyer adjusted his shirt, his chubby cheeks flushed with the thrill of combat. Without a word, he walked back to his plastic horsey, climbed on, and sat like a noble guardian watching over his land.
Grammy, still in awe, clapped her hands. “Sawyer! You saved me. You saved me, and this country!”
Sawyer simply nodded. Then, with the wisdom of a warrior beyond his years, he winked—as if to say,
“Everything’s all right while I’m around.”
And with that, the wind picked up slightly, the trees swayed, and the backyard returned to its peaceful, sunlit serenity.
For now.
Because somewhere in the world, another threat loomed.
And Sawyer would be ready.
