“What are you, crazy?”

Maybe he just is. Satoru Gojo flicks the forehead of a young boy no older than 2. Yet, he was already on his own legs, walking and thrashing around like a toddler as if his father's blows didn't hurt at all. Scattered blocks of wood are on the carpet, somewhat entertaining him as Satoru believed normal toys would overstimulate his son.

“Our kid's in a league of his own. Betcha a million he could defeat Nanamin without taking him seriously.” He says with levity, like he wasn't talking about a literal baby. To be fair, your pregnancy was a rough patch. A massive gym rat for a husband bore an equally behemoth baby. It was a pain to push him out just as it was a pain once you realized Satoru failed to pull it out on time.

“Pick that up.” His voice suddenly drops an octave, glaring at the kid who meekly made himself smaller, nimble fingers taking ahold of his sad beige baby-esque playthings.

Satoru don't be too harsh this, Satoru don't be too mean that—frankly, the strongest sorcerer doesn't care. Since the boy turned 1, he's been raving about starting to hone his talents. Exceptionally enthralled by the prodigal skills his son showcased, that's all he's been talking about. You on the other hand, were a little more cautious about it.

He looks at you, offering some reassurance that barely did anything, “Baby, y'know I won't push him if he really can't handle it. I know better than that.”

“Besides, we oughta make more heirs to expand the clan, yeah?”