The Potty Diaries: No end in sight

Lately we've been struggling with a little thing I call number two. I use the term "we" to indicate myself and Buggledaddy, since apparently Bugglegirl is completely comfortable right where she is. This exchange happened recently, on a day that ends in "y." Welcome to the world according to poo.

"Mommy." Bugglegirl is calling me from her bathroom. She's been in there for nearly half an hour and I've started to wonder if she'll grow up to be one of those people with vintage stacks of Popular Mechanics and Redbook next to the john. Anyway, I walk in there and immediately spot trouble: little wads of not-so-white toilet paper scattered about. She looks up at me like I'm Cruella de Vil and pleads, "Mommy, I'll never lie to you again, Mommy." Oh boy. She knows she's supposed to call me when she's finished and apparently I've freaked her out to the point of confusion.
"I'll never get pooey on my dress again, Mommy." Weird, I don't see any poo on the dress.
"Is there pooey on your hands?"
"No." Her fingernails aren't exactly appetizing.
"Let's wash them really good." We dry our hands and Bugglegirl pats me on the back and says, "You're not upset, Mommy?" Insert knife and twist.
"Is there pooey on your blankie?"
"No."
"Did you touch your blankie after you wiped?"
"Yes."
"You did?"
"No."
"How did you get pooey on your belly?"
"Ohhhhhhhh, it just got on me," she muses, in the same way one might casually announce one's preference for paper instead of plastic.
"But how did it get there?" Cornered, she starts to play it off with that George Bush giggle.
"Heh, I just leaned over the potty, you know, and - heh - it got on me, Mommy."

I don't press the issue. Because maybe I don't really want to know. Maybe I'm going to close my eyes now and not wake up until she's graduating from junior high. When I can deal with less harrowing situations like blow jobs and braces. Please, keep the cocktails coming.