A Father's Day Mathom I

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Just another quiet morning in the Baggins smial ... or is it? Frodo is 9 (age 6 in Man years)

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Drogo pretended to be asleep when he heard the round door to his and Primula's bedroom creak open. With his sharp hobbit hearing, he heard the faint pitter-patter of his son's bare feet crossing the wooden floorboards, followed by his wife's near-silent footfalls. Drogo shifted under the lightweight summer blanket and feigned a snore. He heard the clink of dishes as Primula set a tray laden with food on the night table and he prayed his stomach would not start rumbling at the smell of first breakfast.

Drogo heard his son's smaller feet pad around the room until the lad was standing beside the bed, near his head. He felt the mattress sink a bit as Frodo braced himself on his hands, stood on his tip-toes, and peered over the edge of the bed at his father. There was a small, but gentle poke to his belly, then the mattress rose to normal. Drogo continued to lightly snore.

"Daddy is still sleeping, Mama," Frodo whispered disappointedly.

Even with his eyes closed, Drogo could see his wife's slow, sweet smile and see her eyes sparkle with mischief ... just like their little son's often did.

Drogo felt the mattress sink even further and being very careful, he cracked open one eye to see one of Frodo's bare hobbit feet just inches from his nose as the lad struggled to climb up onto the bed. He smiled as his son grunted and pulled himself up on his tummy and finally onto the bed. Drogo almost gave himself away and nearly laughed when the lad's nightshirt rode up, revealing the small pair of linen smallclothes that were riding in the opposite direction. Two creamy white chubby cheeks were revealed that screamed to be pinched. Why, it didn't seem all that long ago he was tucking those cute little cheeks into nappies.

Primula came around the bed, into her husband's view. She gave him a knowing wink before fixing Frodo's smallclothes and nightshirt. Drogo was quick to close his eyes again once Frodo sat triumphantly upon his parents' bed. His face--which had yet to lose its baby fat--lit up in a wide smile at the accomplishment of his task.

Drogo feigned another, louder snore and pulled the blanket up to his nose to cover his smile.

Frodo was taken aback at the sudden movements. After his father appeared to have settled in his sleep once more, the child crawled closer to the head of the bed and let one small hand pat what he thought was one of his father's shoulders. "Daddy?"

There was no response.

"Daddy?" Frodo prodded him again and Drogo remained very, very still.

"Daaadddy?" Frodo's little boy voice sing-songed.

All of a sudden Frodo squealed as in one motion his father threw the blanket aside, sat up, and snatched him up, holding him high overhead.

"Who dares to disturb my sleep?" Drogo boomed in an loud, deep voice. He shook the hobbit child, peering up into the reddening little face. Frodo's dark chestnut curls hung down into his eyes and the boy pushed them away to no avail.

Frodo nodded his head and squirmed to get free. "Put me down, Daddy!"

Drogo frowned. "Do you know what happens to little hobbit lads who disturb my rest?" he boomed.

Frodo shook his head, giggling.

"First, I tickle them ... and then I EAT them!"

Frodo shrieked with laughter as his father wrested him to the mattress and blew on his tummy, whilst tickling his downy feet. "Stop it, Daddy! Stop! Don't eat me! Mama, help!" Frodo gasped in between peals of laughter.

Primula joined her husband on the bed. She found herself wishing her son would never grow up ... that he could stay young and innocent forever ... that she and Drogo would be able to cuddle him like this for the rest of their lives. It was a selfish wish, she knew, but time would not slow or be stopped and before they knew it, their little son would be all grown up with children of his own.

Drogo stopped his tickling long enough to look at the first hobbit who had stolen his heart. "Mmmm, this little hobbit tastes very good, my wife. You should try some. He is very sweet."

Frodo went very still as his mother bent and gave him a kiss atop his forehead.

"You're right, my husband. This little hobbit lad is sweet enough to eat." And Primula continued to smother her son with kisses while Drogo resumed his tickling and blowing raspberries on the round, little tummy. Their son was shaking in peals of delighted laughter, making his parent's hearts sing in unbounded joy.

"Stop it!" Frodo shouted gleefully. "You can't eat me, Daddy! I made you breakfast!"

Abruptly, Drogo and Primula stopped their teasing. "Breakfast you say, Frodo my lad?" Drogo asked.

Frodo sat up, his nightshirt and hair even more rumpled and out of order than when he had woken up that morning. "Yes, Daddy," he replied. "I helped Mama cook first breakfast for you today. Happy Father's Day!"

Soon, Frodo was ensconced in between his mother and father as the three sat on the double bed, sharing the overflowing breakfast tray.

It was easy for Drogo to see exactly which dishes Primula had let Frodo help her with. His scrambled eggs contained bits of eggshells in them and his toast was a tad bit on the burned side. He didn't mind though and couldn't begin to imagine how he and Primula would have fared had they not finally been blessed with their beloved son. Frodo brought such added joy to their lives and they loved him dearly. Although he and Primula had been very happily married for many years beforehand, Drogo could not imagine a life now without their beautiful son.

Drogo looked aside to watch his family. Primula was cutting up Frodo's morning sausage for him, while the boy drank his milk, holding his cup with two hands as young children often do. He chuckled at the milk mustache lining Frodo's upper lip and in a spur of the moment decision, hugged his only son close to him.

"Thank you, Frodo. That was very dear of you to make first breakfast for me on Father's Day. I enjoyed it very much ... and I do believe the scrambled eggs were my favorite."

Frodo's big blue eyes widened in awe. "Really?"

Drogo hugged his son closer. "Really," he affirmed, winking over the dark curls at his wife.

Frodo positively beamed. "Mama showed me break how to break open one egg and I opened the rest all by myself."

"You don't say?" Drogo eyed the small pile off eggshells sitting on the edge of his otherwise empty plate.

"... and I toasted the bread all by myself, although I did burn it slightly. And Mama let me ...."

Drogo sighed in happiness. This was what he and Primula had waited for so long for and he wouldn't have it any other way ... including the burnt toast and the eggshells.

~The End~ Happy Father's Day!

A Father's Day Mathom II: Another First Milestone

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Drogo receives a special Father's Day mathom from his son. Frodo is 9 months old. (for purposes of this story, 9 months is 9 months & won't be converted to Man years as I usually do.)

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

It was late afternoon on a balmy Father's Day afternoon in the Shire. It was Drogo Baggins first official Father's Day and he glanced from the keeping of his ledger at his desk to where his infant son was sitting on the floor. Frodo was gripping his wooden rattle in one hand, gumming it, while playing with small wooden blocks with the other hand. The blocks had bright letters of the alphabet painted on them and were a recent gift from Drogo's sister, Dora. Frodo drooled down the length of the rattle onto the bib he wore and fumbled to pick up one of the wooden blocks.

Seeing that Frodo was into no mischief, Drogo returned to tallying the ledger. His wife, Primula, was taking a much-needed nap in their bedroom while Drogo minded their son this afternoon. Several minutes later, he grew concerned when he no longer heard the dull knocking of the small wooden blocks. Drogo looked down from his desk only to discover the blocks and rattle discarded on the throw rug by the cold hearth. Frodo was nowhere to be seen.

As any new father, he began to panic and was about to call aloud for Frodo when he felt a sharp tugging at his foothair. "Ouch!"

Looking down, Drogo was quite relieved to find his wayward infant son. "There you are, my lad! Now, how did you get here?" he wondered.

The most logical explanation dawned and Drogo smiled as he scooped the babe into his strong arms. He walked across the sitting room and deposited Frodo onto the floor before returning to the opposite side of the room.

"Frodo? Come here, Frodo!" Drogo called out and was disappointed when the nine-month old just looked at him briefly.

Frodo merely sat where he was placed and babbled nonsensically to himself, playing with his bare toes. He paid no heed to his father's calls.

Drogo frowned. Perhaps his theory was incorrect after all ... besides, nine months was a bit early for hobbitlings to start crawling. He returned to his desk, but kept a discreet eye on his son while pretending to write in his ledger. He continued to hope against all odds.

Soon enough, Frodo grew bored with his toes and rocked forward on his bottom until he gained his hands and knees. He began a shaky crawl towards his father.

Drogo turned in his chair and encouraged the little one to come to him, beaming with pride at his son's first crawling.

Frodo fell a few times onto his nappied bottom, but he would rock back up and continue his seemingly long journey across the sitting room with stubborn determination until he was once again at his father's feet. He tugged on his father's curly foothair for attention.

"Duh!" he crowed and Drogo recognized his lad's sound for Dad. "Duh! Duh!"

Drogo swept the little one into his arms and kissed him, making Frodo laugh. He couldn't have asked for a better Father's Day mathom from his son.

~The End~