More Fuss Than Fuss is his motto

It may startle some of you to hear that the Fuss evolves apace, whether I update regularly or not. I have pictures to support this hypothesis, although they rest in digital purgatory while I figure out how to use Lightroom.. Proof will arrive one way or another- either I will conquer Lightroom, storming the bastion of its secrets with ladder and flail, or grow weary of the assault and upload the pics warts and all.

Not that the Fuss needs any digital sweetening, but I prefer to crop out the wasteland of debris we pretend is our living room when I can.

The larger he gets the more obvious & uncanny our physical similarity.
Short legs, giant butt, long torso & monkey arms.
My clone, save for the wife's feet and ears stuck on Mr. Potatohead style.

Somewhat alarmingly he's already flashing some of my character traits as well- at one year and change he's already developed a taste for ALONE TIME.
He'll start freaking out, and you put him in the pack-n-play assuming he's ready for a nap, only to find him sitting quietly looking out the window a half hour later, or hear him burbling happily over a book, or declaiming to his stuffed monkey.

And he is no longer automatically content when you pick him up. Now he wants back down, so he can pursue whatever local feature catches his attention- the neighbors cat, or their crystal peppermill, or that tray of ashes under the BBQ grill.
So instead of feeling put upon because he wants to be held 24/7 you feel put upon because you're chasing him around pissing him off by denying this or that object of momentary fascination.

I'm thinking this is the procession of childhood.
Annoyances drift into the misty past on the current of memory, their bright edges dulled by blooming patches of nostalgia, to be replaced in the moment by sparkling new annoyances which gleam for a time before drifting away in their turn.

On a long enough timeline it all transforms, I'm sure.
Glass shattering three AM screaming fits, apocalyptic diaper blowouts and Exorcist-style projectile vomiting becoming charming family anecdotes, or at worst cautionary tales for the unwary.