We've been slowly working our way through The Hobbit with Evie and Sophie. It comes in waves -- for a week or two, they want to read it every night for their bedtime story. Then it goes out of vogue, and we don't touch it for weeks. Lately, we've been reading about Bilbo's adventures almost every night.
Much of The Hobbit is sailing right over their four-year-old heads. That's to be expected. But they understand enough to follow along and stay interested. Often, we pause to discuss what we've just read or what a particular words means, but those pauses are almost exclusively instigated by Airan or me. The girls seem content to listen and float along with the story.
When we last saw Bilbo, he had just bested Gollum in a riddle contest. Tonight, we picked up with Gollum's horrible realization that his precious was missing, and Bilbo's belated flash of understanding that the ring he'd found in the cave was no ordinary ring. The two then chase through the dark goblin caves, Gollum desperate to reclaim his birthday present and Bilbo just fighting to stay alive. Bilbo considers using his glowing sword to end the battle once and for all, but as Gandalf later recalls, pity stayed his hand.
At this point, Evie piped up with, "What does 'pity' mean?"
And thus began our discussion of what it means to feel pity. (This is the kind of parenting moment when the alarms sound in my head. "This is a big deal! Don't screw this up!") We talked about Gollum, what his life was like deep in the dark cave with no friends, no light, no good food to eat, nothing to comfort him or make him happy. And the girls' sweet little faces grew sad, concerned, troubled -- it was heartbreaking to look at them. "This is what it means to feel pity. We think about Gollum's life, and we feel sad for him."
And they got it. They really understood. They made up stories about their animal friends being alone and lost, and we talked about how that would make us feel. At their tender age, I can see the seeds of empathy sprouting, taking root.
