The kid has just one thing on his mind. He knows when we're at the counter where I make his bottles. He'll hear me prepping up the formula and crane his head around to spot it. Once he does, he's locked in.
I'll lean him back, then let him reach his little overstuffed sausage link arms out to grab the bottle. He'll guide it, shakily like he's got the DT, to his pre-pursed lips then go to town.