We come from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the…something…something…hammer of the gods…
Hammer of the Gods: rock journalist Stephen Davis would later borrow this phrase from “The Immigrant Song” for the title of his notorious, unauthorized biography of Led Zeppelin, a book today regarded less as a bio than as a how-to manual for hotel-trashing, groupie-defiling rock ‘n roll depravity. The title is an interesting choice, as “The Immigrant Song,” while great for making karaoke a miserable experience for all but the singer, is somewhat atypical for a Led Zeppelin track, since it’s not about Hobbits, Alistair Crowley, or food-based euphemisms for genitalia. What it does do is make our supposed overlords from the land of snow and such seem pretty rock ‘n roll.
If most of what you know about Norse mythology comes from comic books, you will know that the Hammer of the Gods is called Mjolnir, and it belongs to Thor. And, if you’re enough of a dork to wear a Thor t-shirt around the house, you will have to impart some of this knowledge to your 4 year-old daughter.
“Who’s that?” Stella asked.
“That’s Thor.”
“Why is he mad?” she asked, leaning in to get a closer look at his stern expression.
“He’s the god of Thunder. It’s pretty serious business.”
“What?”
“It’s mythology,” I explained. “We like to think it’s different than religion.” My wife, who had recently enrolled Stella in Hebrew school, raised her eyebrows and glanced my way.
“Vikings used to believe Thor made thunder with his big hammer,” I clarified.
Later, Stella was refusing to get ready for bed, so I gave her what I intended to be a threatening look. “Are you trying to look like him?” She pointed at Thor.
Clearly, a comic book t-shirt is not the best thing to wear when you want to be taken seriously by a preschooler. Often, it’s hard enough to get what I feel is the proper amount of respect from Stella even when I’m dressed like a grown-up.
A few years ago, I would secretly judge parents whose kids seemed beyond their control. Now, I’m constantly worrying that I am one of those parents. Stella can go from flippant to defiant to obstinate to combative in pretty short order, often in reaction to even the simplest requests. Or, she might skip all that and go directly to screaming. I’ve had foreboding glimpses of her being pretty much the same as a rebellious teen, only taller and with maybe some gothy clothes from Hot Topic.
It’s exhausting, and a little overwhelming, because I’ve never had someone so directly and relentlessly challenge me over every little thing. I say that as if I’m used to being a boss or teacher or a commander of some sort: A gruff sergeant major takes adorable but rambunctious children into his home. He tries to teach them to use their heads, but they teach him to use his heart. ABC Family presents Civilian Stripes. I can completely understand why “mischievous kids versus guy accustomed to respect” is a standard convention of hacky family sitcoms. But, that’s not my deal at all. Exercising authority with a firm, principled approach has never been my strong suit.
For example, one summer I was roped into serving as an instructor for a hastily organized video production daycamp. I spent the next week, the longest of my professional life, trying to wring a five-minute video out of a handful of mostly indifferent middle-schoolers. I say mostly, because I also constantly struggled to dial back the ambitions of the two shaggy-haired, braces-wearing little shits intent upon making a loving tribute to Scarface. But despite my best efforts, which mostly amounted to me saying, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea…” I eventually found myself behind the camera for a scene in which a twelve-year old in gold aviator shades called up a hooker on the phone before plunging his face into a gallon Ziploc bag of prop cocaine. In retrospect, running into him at Harris Teeter the day before as he was buying two pounds of flour with the explanation, “It’s for the video,” should have sounded an alarm.
In the set-up for the comic, Thor’s father, Odin, banished him from the heavenly realm of Asgard for his disobedience. Since I dearly love my daughter to the extent that I have to fight the urge to sneak into her room and hug her when she’s been asleep for even a few hours, and also because, on the bad days, I’ve looked into it and child welfare laws seem to prohibit banishment, this isn’t really an option for me.
Stella has a big personality. She’s often hilarious and entertaining and more than just a little full of herself. I had to cover her bathroom mirror with newspaper because she would sing and dance and perform and ignore repeated requests to, please, for the love of God, just wash your hands already. During breakfast recently, I saw her making faces in the side of a metal napkin-holder and told her we were going to be late. She asked, “Are you going to cover that with paper, too?” I’m not sure if she was asking seriously or just trying to make me feel like an asshole.
This is part of my problem: my tendency to ascribe motive to Stella’s actions. She’s four. She’s going to act four. Look, I know this. I’m sure half the time, she isn’t really ignoring my instructions but is just so caught up in her own universe that my words don’t register; she has so much energy, I imagine sometimes that her heart is beating too loudly in her ears for her to hear the world around her. When we go to Shabbat sing-along for little kids at our synagogue, Stella spends much of the time gyrating arhythmically, sometimes speaking in gibberish, indicating that perhaps a conversion to Pentecostalism is in her future
A Montessori preschool uses the building’s classrooms during the week, and they recently posted a new set of rules the kids had determined for themselves. Among them are:
• No kicking
• No throwing shovels
• No pushing over lamps
• No knocking down mirrors made of glass
• No biting on bottom or arm
It seems the Montessori kids are less concerned with maintaining an orderly class than they are with preventing room-trashing, Hammer of the Gods-style debauchery. I’ve found that parenthood seems to offer an unlimited number of opportunities for me to feel like a complete fuck-up, but if the yardstick for measuring Stella’s behavior is John Bonham, then I guess we’re both doing okay.
But then, we sing a song about the Torah and the kids pass around a toy version of the holy scroll. Dancing and smiling the whole time, Stella takes it and throws it across the room with a mighty cry, apparently finalizing her decision to reject the faith of her ancestors, and to embrace the legacy of her Viking overlords.
The above was read as part of Scene Missing Magazine‘s segment at Bang! Arts’ “Titans of Talking” event. The piece was purported to be a review of the trailer for Thor: The Dark World.
