Chapter 368 Did My Son Poop Today
- Sienna adjusted fast and, blank-faced, announced, "Meeting starts." Everyone saw her slip off her watch and set it on the desk. One arm held the baby. The other hand gripped the meeting files. The little one in her arms slept like a rock, totally unfazed by the world. While Sienna held the baby and led the meeting, on the other side, Callan got woken up by his son too. He had just sat up when Zachary, who’d been sleeping outside, rushed in. "Sir, is the young man hungry?" Callan checked the time. "Probably." He walked over, scooped up his son, and patted his tiny butt. "Also wet." Zachary darted off to make formula. He loaded the powder, set the bottle on the milk warmer, then went hunting for a diaper. Little An Jingshen stopped crying—clearly hungry—mouth opening and closing like a tiny fish. Zachary changed the diaper with slick, practiced hands. For a rough guy, his baby care was solid. Diaper done, he picked the little man up and fed him. An Jingshen could already knock back sixty milliliters—growing like a champ. "Sir, go sleep. I’ve got this." Callan wasn’t sleeping. If his son’s awake, he’s awake. After the bottle, Zachary burped the little guy, pro-level. Five pats, and out came the burp. Full belly, dry diaper—the young man was out cold again. Zachary sighed, jealous and soft. "Human babies are the luckiest. Even their poop gets applause." Wild, right? The big-shot Callan, once all about deals and money, now had three favorite lines: "Did my son poop today?" "Why hasn’t my son pooped yet?" "He already pooped? Nice." If the little guy didn’t poop that day, Callan couldn’t even enjoy his meal. The moment his son finally dropped a load, Callan looked happier than landing ten billion. Money never made him smile. His kid’s poop did. Zachary set the young man gently into the crib, checked the windows, and glanced at the room temp. "Sir, get some sleep. He’s full. He’ll likely be out till dawn." In the daytime, a childcare specialist handled the baby. Callan mainly kept an eye on things. Downstairs, a six or seven-year-old boy sat on the living room sofa. He saw Callan and barely reacted, muttering, "Uncle Callan." Callan had a son now; his moves had a default dad vibe. "It’s late. Why are you still here?" Lou Shuo answered, naturally, "Don’t wanna go." Just then, Lou Zhe came out. He spotted his little brother and nearly popped a vein. He asked the same thing as Callan: "Why are you still home?" This time, Lou Shuo didn’t even bother replying. Lou Zhe snapped, jumped up, grabbed him by the collar, and tossed him toward the door. "No school? What next, you gonna fly?" "Someone get this brat to school. Keep eyes on him. If he skips again, I’ll break your legs." The two bodyguards assigned to protect Lou Shuo quickly took him, slung him over a shoulder, and carried him off. Lou Shuo didn’t fuss. He looked cooperative. But everyone knew it was just a show. Give him a chance, and he’d bolt like a rabbit. Lou Zhe was losing his mind. "This punk is gonna be the death of me. What if I raise him into a useless playboy? My parents will stop blessing me for sure." Callan thought a beat. "You’re his guardian now. Use reason. Win him over." Lou Zhe felt his brother was talking nonsense. Anyone stuck with a problem kid knows the pain. Their parents hadn’t cracked it—what could he do? But then: "Hold up. Why is the kid calling you ‘uncle’ again? Doesn’t that mess up the family order?" Callan couldn’t be bothered with trivial stuff like that.