Return of the Poopmeister

When Olivia was a newborn, I dubbed her the Grand Poopmeister. I should have known it would come back to haunt me when it came time to potty train. The other day she had to go "poo poo". It was morning, and she was still wearing footie pajamas and a diaper from the night before, so I stripped her down and sat her on the potty stark naked. But she didn't want to go on the potty, she wanted to go on the toilet. I put a potty seat on the toilet and sat her down there and she went! Success! Cleaned her up, flushed, and washed my hands. While I was washing, she went and sat on the potty and went some more! Success! So I cleaned her up again, and was cleaning out the potty chair, only slightly flustered from all the moving and pooping when she came back to the bathroom somewhat upset. She pointed at her feet, and when I looked at them, they were covered in "poo poo". We cleaned off her feet, and then I asked her to take me to where the poo poo was. She took me to the kitchen. And there was a big pile on the floor that looked as if it had been danced in. Accident!? At least it wasn't on the carpet.