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My defenses don't fly anymore

Willow and I were playing with Mr. Potato Head in the bonus room when the drier downstairs kicked off and the alarm beeped.
Willow chimed, "WazZat?"
"That's the laundry," I responded. "Do you want to go down with me and do the laundry?"
Willow shook her head no.
I stepped over the barriers at the top of the stairs (a large kitchen set and a heavy tote filled with baseball cards, a combo that has kept Willow penned upstairs for months now because a baby gate doesn't fit) then looked back and asked again, "Willow, do you want to help with the laundry?"
Again she shook her head no.
"OK, I'll be right back."
Willow continued playing with Mr. Potato Head, and I hopped down the 10 or so steps to the main floor of the house.
As I emptied the drier and folded the towels, rags and underwear, I heard Willow chirping playfully up in the bonus room.
A couple of minutes passed, and I neared the end of the folding job, grabbing two socks to wrap together.
Willow walked up to the drier and peered inside.
"I'm finished, baby girl," I said, then I stopped folding the socks and looked down at Willow then around the corner, through the kitchen, where Willow obviously had come from.
My brain locked.
"Where did you come from?"
Willow didn't answer, and seeing I had finished the laundry, she turned and headed back toward the bonus room. I followed, curious to see how she managed to get down the stairs.
My impenetrable fortress wall remained, unmoved, at the top of the steps.
I guess she scaled it.
Or learned to fly.

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