I can recall as a child getting upset when I would return to the precise spot on the dining room floor where I'd seen a pony-tail holder, and find that my Dad had moved it. I'd left it there for the express purpose of being able to find it later when I needed it. This would make more sense if I could adequately convey to you the disastrous state in which I kept my room most of the time. To try to find something as small as a pony-tail holder in that scene would have been hopeless. There was no system of bins or baskets in which I might have sorted and stored items of that nature. There was a pile on the dresser, a layer on the floor, and a jumble in the closet. Come to think of it, that's what Hannah's room looks like in its natural state.
Earlier this week I swept up and threw away a small article of doll clothing. I had seen it on the floor for five days running, picked it up and put it somewhere nearby, only to find it under the dining room table again. And again.
This is clearly not important enough for Hannah to put away, and I'm tired of seeing it.
Out it went with a pile of dog hair and cracker crumbs. She hasn't asked about it. Yet.