Makin' Whoopie...pies.

It was all dada's fault.
In an effort to keep a good day going strong, I may have promised a timbit to my beautiful little toddler as she woke up from her nap, knowing that there were a few left over from our road trip. As ideas go, she thought that a post-nap timbit was simply brilliant. So off we went downstairs in search of that little yellow box...which was...empty.

Tears. Lots of them. And not just those "I'm not getting my way so I'm going to scream" kind of tears. We're talking big, fat, copious tears of devastation. It took about ten minutes of cuddling for her to stop sobbing.

Apparently dad had neglected to a) save one for his first born or b) dispose of the evidence. This was not his best moment. Fortunately for him though, he had fled the premises during nap time and so it fell to yours truly to repair the psychological damage inherent in this particular brand of abuse.
And so I asked my little timbit, once her sinuses had been cleared and her breathing regulated, what I could do to make her feel better. The answer: a timbit.

Here's an interesting side note: Ottawa, our nation's capital, has shockingly few Tim Horton's around, and certainly none within walking distance of our house.

Dada, the one with the belly full of timbits, also had the car. I offered granola bars, fruit snacks, anything I could confirm with certainty that what we had in the house. But that's not what she had in mind.

E: Cake.
M: Cake? What kind of cake?
E: Regular cake. No. Marshmallow cake.
M: I don't know if I've ever heard of marshmallow cake!
E: I want marshmallow cake.

At first I was at a loss. But then I remembered the tub of marshmallow fluff burning a hole in my cupboard. A quick search on Google found me this recipe, and we got to work.

"Look mom! I'm cleaning! With my mouth!" 

 Chocolate-eating grin.

 Whoopie!!! Yes, the filling had to be pink.

S-U-C-C-E-S-S

Anything for my baby. I'm such a sucker.