Shopping for a Billionaire's Baby

You know what's even better than marrying a billionaire? Having his baby.


We're ready. We've studied and planned, read all the birth and labor books, researched parenting classes, consulted our schedules, and it's time.


And by we I mean me.


Declan's just ready for the 'have lots of sex' part. More than ready.


But there's just one problem: my husband and his brother have this little obsession with competition.


And by little, I mean stupid.


That's right.


We're not just about to try to bring a new human being into the world.


We have to do it better, Faster, Stronger.


Harder.


McCormick men don't just have babies.


They engage in competitive billionaire Babythons.


I thought the hardest part about getting pregnant would be dealing with my grandchild-crazed mother, who will go nuts shopping for a billionaire's baby.


Wrong.


Between conception issues, my mother's desire to talk to the baby through a hoo-haw cam, a childbirth class led by a drill sergeant and a father-in-law determined to sign the kid up for prep school before Declan even pulls out, my pregnancy has turned out to be one ordeal after the other.


But it's nothing -- nothing -- compared to the actual birth.