Every morning I wake Troy up, change him, and take him to the kitchen for his first bottle. Every morning, I set him on the floor for the 30 seconds it takes me to retrieve the bottle from the fridge and warm its contents. And every morning, without fail, I get 30 seconds of this:

It doesn’t start until I’ve placed him on the kitchen floor. He’s usually his happy, goofy self up until that point. Clearly, I don’t understand how hard it is to be Troy Steven:

You almost feel sorry for the little guy, huh?

Well don’t, because this is what he looks like after shotgunning his breakfast:

Punk.