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 vaginacam, 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.