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.