I will call this the Cry-It-Out Commiserator.
Because nothing says ‘hey man, I’m sorry my kid wants playtime at 3am and screams right above your head when he doesn’t get it’ like baked goods and ear plugs.
I went to his doorstep and explained, with Henry tagging along behind me wearing an unconvincingly penitent expression. Our below-stairs neighbour said that Henry wasn’t that loud (sweet of him, but not true), although he did express surprise that we move our furniture so often (ulp). I totally gave off a credible-adult vibe when I pointed at the toddler behind me and said ‘uh, it’s not us; it’s him’. In case you were worried it wasn’t awkward enough, I managed to pick the one time in the day the poor chap was having some quality lounge time in his dressing gown.