As I entered my newly-turned-7-year-old son Ben’s room, he was clutching one of his birthday presents, a foam rubber replica of Thor’s hammer. Yes, that hammer.  The hammer that can only be raised by those who are worthy.  The hammer that can empower flight.  The hammer that can whip around like ‘roided up boomerang.  The hammer that has some confusing other worldly nickname, such as Mole-near or something like that (I called it “Fred,” which is also my nickname for my cell phone and my boys seemed horribly offended, so I’ll stick with Mole-near or some marbled filled mouth version of Mjӧlnir).

So I edged closer to Ben’s loft to say goodnight, when out of the blue, Thor’s hammer flew toward me. I had no time to react.  I was a sitting duck.  Victim of my Avengers Chris Hemsworth wannabe son.  By the love of Asgard, that tool of a god plunked me in the eye.  And the worst part, Natalie Portman was nowhere to be found to comfort me.  Sadness (mostly at Natalie Portman’s absence).  Pain (okay, more like great startledness).  And one little birthday boy horrified at what he had just done.  Don’t worry my little Loki, all will be right.  Odin will survive.  Just snuggle under your covers, because the Frost Giants are out tonight.