When I put The Poop down for her lunchtime nap, it seems very much that pain is the name of the game.
Each afternoon, I place her gently on the comfortable mattress with a warm crocheted blanket to nestle calmly under. Ten minutes later, after noting from the monitor much heaving, straining, banging and an assortment of sound effects you would associate with a Looney Tunes cartoon, I return upstairs to witness The Poop's ample thighs threaded painfully through the circulation stunting bars, her head (and that worryingly soft pulsing bit on the top) wedged deep into one of the wooden corners, and she will be face down, bum sticking up in the air, fast asleep.
She usually wakes with three or four hard plastic Lego people embedded in her cheeks. And we don't even have any Lego.