For Mother’s Day I was originally going to write four drabbles from the POVs of the hobbits’ mothers, but the moms just wouldn’t be limited to 100 words. In the first one, Frodo is about 9 years old. In the second one, Merry is about 18. In the last one, Pippin is about 25. (Ages in Man years: 6, 11, and 16)

Companion piece of sorts to “A Mother’s Work” in my “Number Three, Bagshot Row” series.
 
 
 

Motherhood  
 
 

Primula

“Look, Mama! Look!”

I look up from my book and search the courtyard for my son. I find him sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chest. He’s beaming at me, waiting for me to watch him perform his latest trick. “Look what I can do!” he exclaims, then starts rocking back and forth, once, twice, three times, getting a little more momentum with each rock. Then he tucks his head down into the cross of his arms and rolls over forward, a veritable hobbit-ball. His limbs come undone as he comes out of the roll and he finishes spread-eagle on the ground, laughing up at me.

I gasp with delighted surprise, even though this is the seventh time I’ve seen him accomplish this trick. I put my book down on the bench and jump to me feet, clapping wildly. “Wonderful, Fro! Marvelous!”

He beams even more brilliantly, then scrambles to his feet and runs over to me, throwing his arms around my waist with all his might. I hug him back, just as fiercely, and kiss his curls.

“I’ve been practicing,” he states into my dress.

“I can see that,” I say, my pride evident. “What a clever son I have. Why, I do believe you’re the most clever hobbit-child ever. How lucky I am to be your mother.”

He squeezes harder and giggles into my dress as I begin to wiggle him back and forth. I straighten up and fix his curls and he lifts his head to gaze at me. “What else have you been practicing, Fro?”

“All sorts of things,” he says and lets me go abruptly to dash back to his ‘stage’. He shows me how he can stand on his head and walk on his hands and hop backward on one leg, and I clap enthusiastically with each trick, whether it’s performed successfully or not. When he finishes, he dashes over and hugs me again.

“I must say, Frodo my dear, that you’re the most well-balanced, sure-footed hobbit I’ve ever seen. I could never walk on my hands,” I say.

“Really?” Frodo says and looks up at me, considering. Then he beams again and he jumps a bit at some idea he’s thought up. “I’ll teach you. It took me a long time to learn to, but I bet you’ll learn real fast. You’re very clever too, Mama.”

“Clever, I may be, but I’m too old for such tumbling about,” I say. “Now, you have been working very hard to perfect your talent, and that deserves a treat. Help me make cream puffs?”

“I’d rather have mushrooms,” he says.

I laugh. “Only if I can have some too.”

His face scrunches up and he mulls this over, giving the matter much weight of thought. “I suppose you can have some, since you’re my mum.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you. You’re such a thoughtful young lad,” I say and laughing again, I lead him inside, his arms still tight around me.
 
 

Esmeralda

I find Merry playing outside in the courtyard behind to the stables. With him are Berilac and Merimas, along with the other teen and younger tween lads. They are vigorously playing some form of kick ball where the targets aren’t the goals but are instead the other players. The old burley sac stuffed with sand that they’re playing with is zooming past limbs and heads with far too much speed. All I can imagine seeing is Merry lying on the ground in a bloody heap, but I try not to fret, knowing how Merry hates that.

“Merry!” I call instead. He looks over at me and grimaces. “Can you come here for a minute?”

“Go to your mummy, Merry,” a lad named Merle teases. The other lads snicker and a few mimic the first. Berry gives Merry a sympathetic pat on the back. I pretend not to notice any of this and wait for Merry to drag himself over to me, looking sullen and glum where just a moment before he was laughing and grinning.

“What do you want?” he hisses under his breath.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lad,” I say, putting my hands to my hips. He at least has the sense to look abashed, and I’m relieved to see that the blood had come from a small gash in his arm that is already closed. “Your aunts are going to be here shortly. I want you to look respectable when they arrive. They don’t visit that often, it’s not going to kill you to spend an afternoon with them.”

“But Mother,” Merry says, a whine in his voice, which he is still keeping under his breath. He doesn’t want the other lads to know he’s whining. “The Aunts are mean to me.”

“Why do you say they’re mean? Because they want you to act like a gentlehobbit rather than a charlatan?” I say and tisk at him. “You may finish playing this round, then you must come inside and wash up. It’ll be far worse for you if they arrive to find you looking like a scoundrel.”

“All right,” Merry agrees, but he isn’t happy about. “I’ll make it quick.”

“Good,” I say, I then do the worst possible thing I can do. It’s a crime that isn’t to be tolerated, but I forget that and take out my handkerchief to wipe away a smudge of dirt on his cheek. The other lads roar with laughter and Merry blushes bright red and beats my hand away.

“Mother!” he hisses.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, backing away. “I forgot I’m not allowed to touch you in front of your friends.” Or hug you, or kiss you, or ruffle your curls, or tickle you. No, those things are off limits now.

Merry lifts his head high and bravely returns to the game, completely ignoring the fact that I’m still there. His friends tease him mercilessly but he keeps his head high and instantly kicks the ball right at Merle, hitting him square in the chest and taking him out of the game. I cringe and fight the urge to tell him to be careful.

I go inside to see that tea is ready for when my sisters arrive, ignoring the pang of hurt in my heart that my son doesn’t need me so much anymore. He’s growing up too fast, and far too soon he won’t need me at all.
 
 

Eglantine

I’m in the study balancing the household ledgers and enjoying some peace and quiet, when the study door creaks open. Pippin peeks inside, then slips through the door opening and slumps onto the dais along the far wall. He’s been moping around the apartment for the last several days but I learned long ago not to ask him what’s bothering him. He’ll just roll his eyes or sigh dramatically and insist that nothing’s wrong. If I leave him be, he’ll either figure out on his own whatever is bothering him, forget about it and move on, or do this: come to linger around me for no particular reason. Now he’ll pretend that he has no interest or purpose in being here. He’ll finger the pattern in the upholstery of the dais, he’ll get up and roam about the room, picking up the trinkets and turning them over, or running his fingers along the bookshelves and tabletops looking for dust that isn’t there. Then he’ll sigh and fiddle about some more. Then he’ll sit back down, but closer than before, in the chair next to the desk where I’m sitting. He’ll start to speak several times, only to say nothing at all, then he’ll get up again and come to stand behind me, pretending to read the titles of the very books and annals that his father has to force on him for his Thainship studies night after night. Then he’ll talk, but only if I don’t attempt to talk first myself or make any form of eye contact until then.

I keep my head down and go about my adding and subtracting. I watch him from the corner of my eye, watch him as he fingers the dais and then looks around the room, studying it as though he has never seen it before. I ruffle through some papers when he stands up and starts to poke about the room. I find the invoice for the retiling of the kitchen floor and add that to the ledger. Then I remember that Pervinca needs more material for a dress she’s making and add the cost of that as well. Pippin plops down in the chair next to the desk and twiddles his thumbs. I look up, briefly, to acknowledge his presence then go back to my work.

I’m finishing up my sums when Pippin stands up again and comes to stand behind me. I tidy up as he hums thoughtfully at the books and fingers the spine of one of the thicker ones. I open the desk drawer and put the ledgers away, then cork the inkwell and put the pen and ink away.

“Mum,” Pippin says then. He’s still looking at the books and I know he won’t turn to face me until he gets to the heart of the matter.

“Yes Pippin,” I say. “Did you want something?”

“Do you think it’s true that if a hobbit hasn’t hit his growth spurt before he’s twenty-six, that he’ll never grow another inch?” Pippin asks the book about property laws.

“Well, it is unusual for a hobbit to grow after a certain age, but everyone is different,” I soothe. “Your father didn’t reach his final height until he was nearly thirty. Don’t tell him I told you that, though.”

He smiles weakly before turning serious again. “Do you think that it’s true that the size of a hobbit’s hand determines how many lasses he’s going to court?”

I take a moment to prevent myself from sputtering before answering. “The one has nothing to do with the other, dearest.”

“Well, then,” he says to the book about the topography of the Green Hill Country, “do you think that it’s true that a lad who’s short and has small hands will be thought of as girlish?”

I start to seethe at the unknown bully who’s been telling such ridiculous things to my susceptible son. I take a deep breath and say soothingly, “Of course not, Pippin. There are plenty of lads who are smaller than average and no one thinks the less of them for it. They certainly would never think that a lad is a lass.”

“So then, lasses won’t think that either, and they won’t treat the lad like one of the lasses, and that wouldn’t be the reason why they wouldn’t want to kiss the lad or anything?”

“No. Pippin, none of that is true. It’s absolutely absurd to think that it is,” I say assuredly.

“Well, then…” Pippin says and glares at the book on negotiation rights before turning to me and asking, “then why does Cedric always have a lass on each arm? They’re always swooning over him and fighting each other to be his lass, and always saying how he’s so tall and his hands are so big and how he’s such a strapping lad. They look at me and tell me I’m blocking the sun, or can I fetch a servant for them, or tell me I would look good in teal, and I don’t even know what teal is. Aidan and Everard said that I’m small like a lass and he’s not and that’s why.”

So it is Everard Took and Aidan Chubb who are responsible for this little outburst. I turn in my chair to face Pippin directly, and I place my hand on the bookshelf next to his. He fingers the edge of the shelf for a moment or two, then shyly wraps his hand around my index finger, barely touching. He looks at me miserably.

“Everard’s tall,” he goes on. “He’s the tallest hobbit in the Smials and his fingers are really long, so he has big hands too. Aidan’s tall, and he has a ‘good sturdy back and nice strong hands’. They also have lasses following them about.”

“First of all, any lass setting her cap on Cedric Briarmoore is asking for a broken heart, and quite possibly more trouble than she’s prepared to admit to her father. Second of all, those lads are years older than you, Pippin, as are the lasses who are chasing them. And let me tell you something: they were no bigger than you when they were your age,” I soothe.

“Cedric was,” Pippin mutters.

“And again I say, more trouble than they’re prepared for.” I dare to move my hand to cover his and he doesn’t move away. I give his hand a little squeeze. “When I first saw your father, he was just like you: small for his age, shy around the lasses, uncertain about his appeal. I loved him instantly.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Oh yes, I did. Gaining a lasses affection isn’t a race, Pippin, nor is it a game. If those lads want to tease and jest, let them, but don’t be pulled in by them. One day, that special lass will look at you and she’ll fall in love with you for just being you. That’s all that matters. Hm?”

He smiles weakly again, but there’s a lightness to his eyes now and his face is not so drawn in as it was before. He looks down at our hands and shrugs. “I guess so.”

“Good. Now that that’s settled, move out of the way. You’re blocking my light. Oh, and can you fetch the serving lass for me?” I say and grin mischievously.

Pippin fights to keep from smiling fully but soon loses the battle. He snickers, then chuckles and finally laughs. He steps back, breaking contact, and shakes his head at me. “Thanks, Mum,” he says. He leans over and pecks me briefly on the cheek, a whisper of a kiss. He’s across the room and at the door before I can blink.

“Oh, and Pippin,” I call before he can retreat fully back to his elusive and secretive tween self.

“Yes Mum?” he asks, poking his head back through the door.

“Teal is a dark bluish-green, and you would look very appealing in it,” I inform him.

He grins and winks. “Thanks Mum,” he says again and slips away.
 
 
 
 
 

GF 5/15/06