When Frodo was small he loved being carried.
He loved the feeling of big, strong arms wrapping around him and holding him securely.
He always felt safe in his parents' arms.
When relatives came they would always pick him up and play with him and make a fuss over him.
He loved it.
When he was three he and his papa got lost in a dark wood at night. Drogo was worried, but Frodo wasn't one bit scared. He knew that he was always safe in Papa's arms.
When he was five his mama's caring arms and sweet voice soothed him through earaches, fever, and childhood nightmares.
At eight his da would swing him around and around, or lift him high into the air and sit him on Da's shoulders where he could see everything. Frodo would squeal and laugh and beg for more.
When he was nine his mother's comforting arms held him close and soothed his hurts after a row with his cousin Lotho over whether or not Frodo's mum was "trash".
When he was eleven his cousin's strong arms wrapped around him and carried him safely away from a tragic accident. When he escaped and ran back to the docks the same cousin caught him and carried him away again. Away from his mum and da. Away from the wreck of the boat. Away from the limp forms of his drowned parents.
After that night he never enjoyed being carried again.