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A wise man once said, 'Sonny Blake is the best thing on Instagram'.

A wise man once said, ‘Sonny Blake is the best thing on Instagram’.

And what a wise man that was. (Hint: It was a woman. It was…it was me.)

Most people with a uterus are well aware of the almost two-year-old toddler and his escapades. From pretending to be a miniature bellboy, to sharing milkshakes with dad, to dressing up in legitimately ridiculous costumes, Sonny Blake brings nothing but pure joy to peoples lives.

There was the time he had a somewhat bizarre photoshoot with a cat:

Then there was the time he fell in love with his storm trooper, who highlighted his very non-Storm-Trooper-esque physique:

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And of course, there was the time he accidentally dressed like his mum. How humiliating:

When two thirds of your family have a “dress like the couch party” and you didn’t get the invite. #couchmaflague

A photo posted by Hamish Blake (@hamishblakeshotz) on

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But there’s a problem. Sometimes Sonny can get…too cute. There’s a point where his cuteness sends me over the edge. I yell. I scream. I call relatives. ‘HE HAS BECOME TOO CUTE’, I yell into my phone. ‘I CAN NO LONGER DEAL.’

So guys, as I show you the latest Sonny moment, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. It may send you crazy with cuteness. It had me nonsensically throwing my phone across the room and yelling ‘I CAN’T ANYMORE. HE HAS SIMPLY BECOME TOO CUTE. I WANT TO EAT HIM. IT’S TOO MUCH TO DEAL WITH.’

 
At the same time I was obviously tagging everyone I knew in case, for some devastating reason, they hadn't seen it yet. 'He is playing the drums', I commented calmly, before furiously typing into my phone: 'HE IS PLAYING THE FRIGGIN DRUMS AND THEN HE STOPS AND LOOKS AT THE STICKS BECAUSE HE IS JUST A BABY PLAYING THE DRUMS AND I LOVE HIM AND WHY DON'T I HAVE A SONNY AND HOW CAN I GET ONE.'

Ahem.

It's too much. It's all too much right now. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, quite frankly, I pity you. Behold, Sonny Blake playing the drums:

  You can thank me later. 

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