Little Ones

[tr1xx]

The memory opens on an average house in Glasgow; not too cramped, but not exactly spacious, either. Halls just wide enough to get a wheelchair through, a small built-in elevator in one corner, ramps built where needed. Three bedrooms. One of those bedrooms, the largest of the three, is currently filled with childish laughter and the sound of pitter-pattering feet against carpeted floor.

"I'm gonnae getcha! I'm gonna!"

"Nooo!" two voices echo each other like a chorus.

There's three kids, inside. Three blonde heads, pale faces covered in freckles, all still dressed in pyjamas—though it's hard to actually tell if it's morning or night with how grim the weather outside is, rain beating against the windows. It's easy to recognise one of them: a girl no older than eight, with her hair in a ponytail around which the ring of a prototype version of her familiar rabbit ears is fastened, her bright green eyes lit up with youthful joy. She's chasing the other two, a boy and a girl who can't be older than three; the boy is curly-haired and the girl's hair looks much like Cammie's, just shorter.

There's two beds, in the room, but this is clearly where they all sleep. There's two fairly intact stuffed bears on one bed, and a much-loved stuffed rabbit on the other. There are older toys scattered across the room, some so old people from the early 21st century may recognise brands. There's a collection of comics spread out by a tiny bookshelf, a hazard that one twin's foot catches on and throws her off her feet a second later.

"Whoa!" the young Cammie exclaims, running over to the little girl as she starts dramatically bawling after the landing on her butt. "Maisie, you dafty, you gotta look where you're goin'!"

"I did!" Maisie whines, holding a knee she didn't even hit.

"Did not," the boy teases, helpfully. Cammie shoots him a look as she checks over Maisie's 'injury'.

Maisie pouts. "Did too."

"Did not!"

"Shhhhh," Cammie says, finger to her lips, "you're so noisy, Fergie. You're gonnae wake Mam an' Dad. Maisie, will kissin' it better do?"

"Dunno," Maisie shrugs. "Maybe."

"I cannae get you any of Gran's good biscuits," Cammie says, tapping Maisie on the nose. She giggles, act momentarily forgotten. "So dinnae you even think about it. Kiss an' a piggyback, final offer. You can help me catch Fergie."

"Okaaaay."

Now it's Fergie's turn to pout. "No fair!"

"It's plenty fair!" Cammie said, already kissing Maisie's 'injured' knee and turning to offer her back. Maisie scrambles up, with all the grace a three year old possesses. "Hold on tight."

And then they're chasing after Fergie again, who shrieks with a mix of childish fear and glee, running in circles around the space. Cammie with her longer legs could catch him in an instant, even with the weight of Maisie pressing her down, but that's not the point. The point is having fun, so she only finally catches Fergie when it's the most fun time to do so, right as he's making a break for the door to take the chaos to the rest of the house.

"Oh no you don't!"

She scoops him up, arms around his midsection, as he laughs and squeals and flails. It's a real effort to keep hold of him, with his twin still clinging to her back, but Cammie holds on, bursting into laughter herself. Maisie's little hands grasp for purchase, one almost pulling one of her rabbit ears off the ring until it finds her hair instead. Fergie nearly kicks over a lamp on a bedside table, and that crash is what finally seems to catch attention from elsewhere in the house.

"What are you three doing in there?" their dad calls, from somewhere one room over.

They all stop still. Immediately. It's comical, really, the way they freeze in position, only to collapse a second later as the weight finally catches up with Cammie. They all burst into giggles, and their mam calls next:

"Dinnae you go makin' us come in there so early in the mornin', you rascals. C'mere."

The kids don't need to be told twice. Cammie's almost trampled by little feet as the twins scramble up and out the door, and she's laughing to herself as she follows after them to their parents room. It's just big enough for a closet and the double bed, with more space on one side for their dad's wheelchair.

The twins have already clambered up onto the bed, and Cammie wastes no time following them, tucking herself up between the two, on her mother's lap. Her ears settle into a relaxed, happy position as her mother pets her hair, and she flashes them a smile.

"You are a bad influence, bunny," her mother says, fondly. "You'll have them hoppin' all over the house, next."

"Hoppin' around is fun!"

"Until you nearly break your ankle," her father reminds gently, and Cammie sticks her tongue out at him. The twins are both giggling to themselves, Fergie with his head nestled against their father's body and Maisie tucking herself up as close to Cammie as she can get. "We need to get up soon, Gran will be cookin' breakfast. Don't get too comfortable."

"Too late," they all say at once, and their parents laugh, the modest home filled with a simple sort of joy.