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My Daughter, My High End Porsche Cayenne

I’m ready for my daughter to hit her teenage years. When she comes at me whipping out that oldie but goodie, “You didn’t really want me”, I’m going to open up my old financial drawer and counter her attack with my receipts. Look, Penelope (or Peppi, Lopi, Penny, Goddess Minerva, or whatever she is calling herself by this time), I’ll say, look how much you were wanted. You were wanted $90,000 worth. I could’ve had a fancy SUV, but, no, I’ve got you pouting in my kitchen.

Ladies, if you had your baby for free, count your blessings. IVF is a long and expensive road. My baby cost me a bundle. The drugs alone leading up to the fertilization itself must have cost me around $20,000. And we're not talking happy, yay world, see colors, drugs, we're talking 1 1/2" intramuscular needles. A "luxury" worlds away from the Birkin bag, and a literal hole a day in the heiney. My insurance wasn’t even covering more than some of the doctors’ visits and only those which didn’t fall under the label of “infertility”. (Ironically, the treatment for this is considered a luxury, according to insurance companies, on par with Botox or a boob job.) Then there was that 80/20 split until the insurance deductible was met, and all that good stuff.

Yes, baby, you were wanted.

Not to scare anyone off who is thinking about this, though. You can do it for about $12,000 to $15,000 a go. I just happened to have a few baby losses that added up, a truly pricy but excellent OBY-GYN, a Manhattan clinic, intense cravings for steak, pastrami, and Haagen-Dazs chocolate chocolate chip ice cream, and other expenses that weren’t all the usual.

It’s the best money I ever paid for anything and she doesn’t even come with a logo. And I'm happy to report, she didn't start depreciating as soon as I took her off the hospital lot.