My husband explained to me last night that the piles around my nightstand are a hazard and that they were a problem for him when he was trying to put the bed-rail up for the baby (we’re those people who say they aren’t co-sleeping when in fact we are co-sleeping about 75% of the time). It’s true, pretty much everything about my night-stand is a hazard. I need one with about 2 shelves on the bottom and a couple of drawers with locks. Then I would have to make sure not to put anything on top of it. Somehow, my nightstand ended up being the pacifier depository (my son can only have his “fiers” for sleep) and the family medical center. I guess it started with the tissue box. Mind you, my nightstand is my husband’s childhood night-stand and measures little more than 1 foot by 1 foot. I never had such a luxury. Either my room was too small or too cluttered with other people’s gigantic furniture. Either I had my father’s old office desk a giant metal monstrosity that was bigger than my current desk at work or one of those stereos that was a piece of furniture in itself. It was the kind where you could stack your records and they would drop down when one was finished. I inherited it from my sister when she went off to college. Before that, she used to torment me each night before I went to bed by playing her 45 of “Centerfold” by the J. Geils Band, so that it would stick in my head and I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Now, if I’m having trouble falling asleep I can just pick up one of the non-fiction books teetering on one of the hazards on the floor beside my bed.