Till yesterday, come naptime (or quiet time) I would lay Helena on our queen-sized bed — a futon mattress on a low-to-the-ground platform, low enough that I really wasn't concerned those times she fell, rolled, slipped off, back in the early days when she'd just discovered she had mobility and started to explore her boundaries. There she was surrounded by pillows and cats, with books and a toy or two always in reach. It seemed so much more civilized than the prison of her crib.
Those days are over. Though she'd wriggled down from our bed a couple times in the past, yesterday it clicked. She would not be bound by these four edges a mere foot off the ground.
Life will never be the same again. Everything on the bed must be moved to the hallway. Then to the closet. Then back to the hallway. No, the closet. What's on the bed again? Cat? Pet him. Chase him into the hallway. Check the closet. What are these clothes doing hanging here? Should put them on the bed. Or in the hallway. Where'd the cat go? No time for napping. Ack.