Small jump from cot becomes giant leap into bedlam

Restraint.
There's nothing like it for keeping littlies under control. Or at least in one place when they are out of control.
Highchair straps, buggy straps, Safe T Sleeps, playpens. To name a few. All cleverly disguised as safety measures.
Well, for the past two-and-a-half years we have been keeping our youngest daughter very safe.
In a cot.
But when bedtime became like squeezing a hamster into a matchbox we decided it was time to set her free from her cage and get her a bed.
Now that she was no longer behind bars, we feared the worst.
Post-bath and brimming with excitement, she set the tone by sprinting off into the garden naked.
It was clear we were going to have a fight on our hands.
Back in the confines of her room she lined up her Tinkerbell chair next to the bed and devised a jumping game.
Climb on to the bed. Step down on to the chair. Then ... jump.
After the third vault I confiscated the chair, reminded her it was bedtime and suggested that she choose her books.
"No books, Mummy. Shut the door," she commanded.
So I left her tucked up in bed in her Dorothy The Dinosaur pyjamas and clicked the door shut (the only means of constraint left).
Quarter of an hour later all was quiet, so I carefully eased the door open to see if, by some miracle, she had fallen asleep.
Instead, I found her loading up her wooden trolley with soft toys.
Slam.
She shut the door in my face.
When I opened it she made a beeline for the door.
"Going to the park," she informed me.
"Going to bed," I corrected her.
And confiscated the trolley.
At which point she decided that she did want books after all.
Halfway through the second book she started doing flips on the bed, then dismounted and hid behind the curtain.
So I left her to it.
Until her muffled chattering suddenly became crystal clear.
She had pushed her toy box over to the door, stood on it, turned the handle and escaped.
The toy box joined a growing assortment of furniture outside her bedroom door.
Which is when the screaming started.
The realisation had dawned on her that, although she was no longer incarcerated, she was still expected to stay put.
"Mummy, I want to go to the toilet," she requested, stalling for time.
The said excursion out of the way, she returned to her room, crawled into bed, snuggled under the covers and patted the mattress for me to join her.
"Go to sleep, Mummy," she said.