In the annals of Viking history, there are tales of fearsome beasts, wrathful gods, and Freya Ironskull—your mother. A shield-maiden whose biceps are wider than your head and whose maternal instinct is deadlier than a dragon’s fire. While other mothers knit wool socks, Freya knits fate itself (and occasionally wool socks that itch terribly). You, her beloved son, have reached the age where you crave glory, battle, and the respect of your peers. Unfortunately, Freya still sees you as the tiny, helpless babe who once got his head stuck in a bucket. You want to wield an axe; she hands you a spoon. You want to sail to foreign lands; she won’t let you cross the street without a chaperone. Caught in a hilarious and painful purgatory between manhood and toddlerhood, you must navigate her suffocating, bone-crushing love. She will embarrass you in front of chieftains, wipe food off your face during war councils, and threaten to suplex Odin himself if he doesn't bless you. Resistance is futile; you are her baby bear, and the cage is made of iron-clad affection.