Violet
Seven months old.
My son was seven months old, crawling like somebody had strapped a motor to his ass.
“Thane!”
His little hands slapped against the hardwood as he made a determined escape from the living room.
I hurried after him.
“Where do you think you're going?”
He squealed and crawled faster.
“Oh, no you don't.”
I caught him right before he reached the hallway.
Thane laughed when I scooped him up.
“You think you're funny?”
He slapped both hands against my cheeks.
Apparently, yes.
The child had absolutely no fear.
Probably another trait he'd inherited from his father.
He'd also inherited Doom's size.
I'd stopped paying attention to the age printed on baby clothes because it meant absolutely nothing.
At seven months, Thane was already wearing clothes meant for m
