The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

My girls love shoes. So do I (although not in an extreme Imelda Marcos kind of way). "Shoe," pronounced "hoo," was one of my younger daughter's first words. Maybe there's some shoe-loving gene that always manifests itself with XX. Since they are so drawn to footwear, my girls play with the shoes constantly. Not just their shoes. All shoes in the household. At any given hour of any given day you can find shoes strewn across my floor like old-fashioned bear traps, waiting to trip up and ensnare a less than cautious passer-by.
5:00pm today found all of the shoes on a heap in front of my 4 year-old's toy kitchen. Was she cooking up some sort of shoe delicacy? Opening up a pretend Japanese restaurant and requiring all patrons to leave their shoes at the door? Accepting footwear as a valid form or currency for her services? No idea. Upon discovering said heap, I told her she must put them away because it was time for dinner. Yes. You read that right. We eat dinner at 5:00pm. Like old people in a retirement community. Moving on...
As we sat down to dinner I noticed the shoe pile had vanished. I had wrongfully assumed they were put back on the shelf in our front entryway. Instead, I found this:
Notice the empty shelf right next to the shoe pile.
(Brief interjection: Bert is wonderful, incredibly supportive, and at times a bit of a smart-ass). Here's a transcript of the lecture Bert gave our 4 year-old following the discovery of the second shoe pile.
Bert: You can't just move the pile from one place to another and call that cleaning up.
(Bert pauses, then delivers a pointed glance in my direction.)
Bert: I'm telling you this because you might not learn it somewhere else.

Mary Poppins: Like from her mother?

Thanks for the not so subtle hint, Bert. I got it.