The beach is pretty crowded today.

Though, considering it's the Fourth of July, that's not terribly surprising.

It's hard to believe that just a year ago, Monica and I were here with our two and a half month old infants, these two teeny tiny babies who we were just getting to know, who were just getting to know us. Now…hell, they're fourteen months old. They can walk, they can talk—somewhat—they can certainly communicate their thoughts and feelings to us. They have teeth and can eat real food. They have become these amazing little people, each with their own personality, each with their own gifts and talents and abilities.

Where did the time go?

Just a year ago today was the first time Monica and I talked about adopting more kids. A couple of months later, she was pregnant. Unexpectedly, wonderfully pregnant.

The life I used to have is so far removed from where I am today that it's almost unrecognizable. The time of my life that I didn't belong to Monica doesn't seem to matter anymore. It's almost hard to remember that point in my life because, in retrospect, it seems bleak by comparison. Sometimes I have a hard time imagining my life before becoming a parent—these little people have given such meaning to my life, have given me so much purpose. I never thought I'd be one of those people who thought life didn't truly begin until I had kids but—surprise!—it turns out that I am.

Maybe that's not entirely true. My life didn't really begin until Monica and I fell in love, or at least when we started to fall in love, which I think was probably a long time before we started dating, at least in little ways.

I look over at my wife who's sitting on a beach chair, a pillow cushioning her back, dark sunglasses covering her eyes as she watches the twins play. I know she's wildly uncomfortable now, but I can't help but love the way she looks. Pregnancy looks good on her. And at thirty-seven weeks along, she's lost all sense of what she considers propriety and walks around most days with her belly hanging out, and not a lot of clothing anywhere else. In a nod to her parents and being out in public, she's actually wearing a skirt today, though how it's staying up at all is a mystery to me, but other than that, just a bathing suit top. Even though we're sitting under an umbrella, she's slathered her belly in sunscreen; I can only imagine what a stretching stomach combined with burned skin would feel like.

I reach over and stroke her stomach gently, and she looks at me for half a second, smiling, before turning her attention back to Jack and Erica. She looks tired but absolutely radiant.

When her parents invited us to the beach for the holiday again, we were both a little nervous about coming out here so close to her due date. Ultimately, we didn't want to deprive the kids of this sort of family gathering, even if they won't really remember it. Also, it's probably going to be our last chance to do anything as just the four of us. At this point, though, the bump is truly its own entity, and even though Monica's still carrying it around, it's most definitely family member number five. And if worse comes to worse, it's not as if there aren't hospitals at the beach, and if the baby comes early, it's only going to be marginally so.

I can't believe she's this close to giving birth already. Seriously—where did the time go?

Her fingers link through mine, almost as if she knows what I'm thinking, which wouldn't surprise me in the slightest by this point.

Jack and Erica are sitting in the sand, each wearing silly little bucket hats to protect their faces from the sun. They're surrounded by beach toys and buckets and anything else a one-year-old could want to play with. Emma's squatting in between them, basically playing "Mommy" and trying to be helpful to them, though it's coming across more as bossy. But, she's three, so that happens. Somewhat surprisingly, Ben's is being extraordinarily helpful in not only watching his sister, but his cousins as well. He's very attentive and kind and a lot more patient than most ten-year-olds have a right to be.

"I love them so much," she whispers suddenly and I give her fingers a little squeeze.

"I know. Our kids are pretty great."

She nods, her free hand absently stroking her swollen belly, and I know that she's ready to not be pregnant anymore. She hasn't really said anything, because I know she thinks that would looking a gift-horse in the mouth, but I know she's just ready to meet our baby.

I think knowing that it could literally be any time between now and the next three or four weeks is what's really making us both anxious.

Plus, we still haven't decided on a name.

With Jack and Erica, it wound up being pretty simple. Even before we knew we were going to adopt, we'd been kicking around name ideas, and one of us brought up Jack, after her father, and it sort of stuck, even though we didn't tell anyone about it. The more we thought about it, the more we liked it. Erica was a little trickier because we couldn't find a girl's name that we both liked or that meant something to us. Until, of course, we met the birth mother. After that, naming a daughter after her just made sense. Naturally, we had the opposite problem for their middle names; Josephine came to us both easily, and was even a first name we considered until we realized that naming a child directly after just one of our friends would cause some trouble. As it is, having it as her middle name had everyone a little miffed at first. When Monica suggested "Hemingway" as Jack's middle name, I thought she was screwing with me, making fun of me for wanting it as our son's first name, but, as I found out, she really quite enjoys it. She likes the idea of our kids having conventional first names and middle names that are little less run-of-the-mill.

But still…we knew we'd pick one of those names for the baby. As it turned out, we were able to use both. This one, though…it's been damn near impossible to settle on even a relatively short list. I think the only thing we have been able to decide on is that we'll give this kid's name its own letter—no name that starts with a "C," an "M," a "J," or an "E." At least that narrows it down a little.

"Are you sure don't want to use Daniel?" I ask her suddenly, and I see her eyebrow quirk in my direction.

"Honey, do you want to use Daniel?"

I shrug. "I just thought if we could agree on a boy's name, maybe we'll have an easier time with a girl's name. And you picked out that name such a long time ago and you wanted to use it for so long…"

"Chandler…" she says, squeezing my hand. "I appreciate the gesture, but I did pick out those names a long time ago when I was a kid and nowhere near being married and actually having a child of my own. I never thought about the actual process of naming a child in real life, or that I might want my husband's input on it. It's a nice name, but I want us to find a name together. But if Daniel is the name we pick, that's okay, too."

I shrug noncommittally. "I don't know; Daniel always reminds me of that guy Dan you almost went out with."

She looks at me for a moment, confused. "What guy Dan?"

"Remember that nurse guy Rachel tried to set you up with?"

She shakes her head slowly, watching the kids play. "Can't say as I do."

"Oh, come on. Phoebe was having the triplets, Rachel met those nurses who wanted to take you two out, I was an idiot and tried to make you think I was cool with it…"

She bursts out laughing. "I completely forgot about that guy! His name was Dan?" I suppose it's reassuring to know that guy had no impact on my wife whatsoever. "You know I was never going to go out with that guy, right? I mean, I was already crazy about you. I didn't want to date someone else."

"You know, I know it's been a million years since that happened, but it's still a relief to know that I didn't almost push you away then."

"You could try," she tells me, bringing my hand to her lips, kissing my wedding band, "but you'll never succeed."

I smile, and we're silent for a while, watching our children and their cousins play on the beach, Jack and Erica not really sure what to do beyond grasping tiny handfuls of sand and moving them from one location to another.

"This is really hard," I tell her, sighing.

"I know. There's a lot of pressure, trying to find the right name and all. This is something our kid is going to have to live with for the rest of his or her life. I want it to be good."

"Yeah. We don't want another 'Chandler' on our hands."

"I happen to like 'Chandler'," she tells me defensively. "In fact, I'm quite partial to it."

"You would," I tease. "I like it when you say it, though. Sounds nice coming from you."

At that moment we hear Phoebe and Mike's voices coming at us; I turn and see them strolling down the beach, Mike's arm wrapped around Phoebe's waist, the wind pulling her dress against her pregnant stomach—even though she's about five and a half months along, she barely looks it. I suppose that's what happens when you're tall and the baby has all kinds of room to stretch out.

Monica and Phoebe have been spending a lot of time together the last couple of months—I think they really like that they can go through this together, but I think it's been making Rachel a little jealous. I could be wrong about this, because it's been known to happen, but I would swear she's been trying to drop hints to Ross about having another one.

"Hey guys," Monica says as the couple arrives in front of us. "Good walk?"

"Yeah! This place is awesome. Remind me to thank your parents again for inviting us," Phoebe says as she and Mike settle down onto the sand.

"Sure thing," she answers, chuckling. We were both a little surprised when Monica's parents told us to extend the invitation to Phoebe and Mike, but Monica thinks the idea of a pregnant Phoebe was too interesting for them to pass up—they wanted to see it with their own eyes.

From what we've seen, though, Phoebe hasn't been much different than usual, though I think we'd all say she's much happier with her pregnancy this time than with the triplets. I'm guessing it's the combination of only having one and being able to keep the baby this time.

I notice Mike giving my wife an odd look, but before I can question him, he speaks up. "Hey, Monica; your stomach is…twitching."

We all look over at her as she shrugs. "Hiccups. The kid just can't hold its amniotic fluid."

Mike makes a face and looks at Phoebe's stomach for a second. "Hiccups? They can do that?"

I can't help but chuckle as Phoebe tries to explain the phenomenon to her husband—I reacted the exact same way. Now the baby does it so often that I don't even think about it much. I'm sure Monica does, though—it's probably tough to not notice a baby bouncing up and down inside of you.

I look over at the group of kids—I'm still amazed that Ben is basically handling three little people on his own, though I'd bet if it was pointed out to him, he'd become hyperaware and freak out. He's good with them, though. It's pretty cute to watch.

"Where are Ross and Rachel?" Phoebe asks, leaning back in the sand, stretching out.

"At the house," Monica answers. "Ross is helping Dad get stuff ready for the cookout tonight, and Rachel is…probably avoiding helping."

"And they left the pregnant woman and her husband in charge of their kids?"

I look over at Monica and raise an eyebrow; she gives me the same look. Neither of us had thought about it that way.

Erica screeches a moment later, instantly followed by tears. Our heads whip over to the kids—Ben looks horrified and Emma looks startled. Jack is steadily scooping up sand and dropping it into a bucket.

"I'm sorry!" Ben exclaims. "I—I don't know…"

I just shake my head at him. "It's okay. You didn't do anything."

Erica's sobs grow louder and her hand flops against Jack, hitting his arm. Jack, in response, flings the sand into the bucket; Erica yells in outrage.

"Erica, don't hit," Monica says as I ask, "Is that Erica's bucket Jack's filling with sand?"

Ben looks back and forth between them for a moment before nodding. "I think so. Uncle Chandler, I'm—"

"It's not your fault," I tell him, cutting him off. "No one did anything wrong." The last thing I want is for this kid, who was in no way in charge of watching my children, to feel guilty about Erica's hissy fit.

"Erica, it's okay," Monica says, hoping that the storm will pass quickly—it usually does with Erica. Jack flings another handful of sand in the bucket and Erica cries louder, and I close my eyes for a second. Now he's doing it on purpose, trying to get a reaction out of his sister.

"Jack, don't be mean," I tell him, and he looks up at me, frowning, almost as if he can't believe I would accuse him of such a thing.

"Erica, come to Mama," Monica says, holding her arms out. Erica puts her hands in the sand, pushing herself to a standing position and toddles toward us, only making it a few steps before losing her balance on the unsteady ground and dropping to her knees. Her face is heartbreaking—her little body hitches with sobs and she holds out her arms helplessly. In a second, I'm on my feet, scooping up my daughter and holding her close. She presses her face into my shoulder, her cries only quieting marginally, her tears soaking through my shirt. I bounce her gently back and forth, kissing the side of her head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of her arms reaching out as she says, "Mama! Mama!"

I rub her back gently as Monica braces her hands on the arms of her chair, standing slowly. Erica stretches herself toward her mother, nearly pulling herself out of my arms before Monica takes her from me, pulling her against her side. "Shhhh. It's okay. Mama's here." Erica buries her face in her mother's neck, her sobs muffled, her little body still shaking. "This is why you need to nap."

I kiss the back of my daughter's head before sitting down once more, Monica walking off a few paces as she tries to comfort our screaming child. Jack's looking at me with wide eyes, waiting for a reprimand of some sort. I just smile at him. "It's okay, buddy."

Erica basically refuses to nap nowadays; she seems to believe that her batteries never need to be recharged. Granted, she does have a lot of energy and can pretty much keep going for hours at a time. Then it hits her like this, out of the blue, set off by absolutely nothing. She and Jack don't ordinarily have issues with sharing their toys or playing together, so when a handful of sand in the wrong bucket makes her meltdown, we know it's time for her to sleep.

I look over at the two of them; Erica's still crying, and I can hear Monica sort of singing to her, saying, "Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer. Count the headlights on the highway…"

Monica's been on an Elton John kick lately; she says it soothes the baby, which might be true in that it seems to be relaxing Monica, so it's probably helping the baby.

Phoebe and Mike are eerily quiet, almost waiting for it to be okay to speak. "Maybe the next one will prefer me," I say, shrugging helplessly.

"Is she okay?" Mike asks tentatively.

"She's tired. No nap plus playing in the sun makes for a cranky little baby. And when they're tired like that, all they want is their mom. I'd be offended if it wasn't the most adorable thing in the world."

I look at the two of them again; Monica's voice floats over to me for a moment. "Piano man, he makes a stand…"

I look back to see Jack standing up, stepping carefully through the sand, making his way to me. He comes up to me and pats my knee; he squats for a moment, scooping up a handful of sand, offering it out to me. "Bah?"

"Sand," I tell him, and he looks baffled. The "s" sound is still beyond him.

"Sand," I say again. "Sssssssssss."

He giggles, the grains slipping through his little fingers. "Dada," he tells me.

"I know. Words are tough. We'll get you there."

He puts a hand on my knee again, turning to point at his cousins. "Ben."

I can see our friends smile widely; Monica takes a couple of steps closer, grinning. "That's right—that's Ben." Ben looks up when he hears me say his name and I gesture him over. "Jack, who is this?"

"Ben," he says again. Ben looks shocked.

"He can say my name?"

"Looks that way," I tell him. "Good job, buddy."

"Must mean he likes you a lot," Monica says, grinning at our nephew. Neither of us want to add that his name is pretty close to a lot of the gibberish they've been speaking for months, so it probably wasn't a big leap for him. It's still pretty great, and now our son has another word to add to his repertoire. He's actually aware of who someone else is, and that that person has a name.

Jack holds his arms up for Ben, who picks him up happily, bringing him back to Emma and the toys. I wrap my arm around Monica's hips, looking up at her and Erica. Erica seems to have stopped crying for the moment. "Sleeping?" I ask quietly.

She nods. "Yeah. I wish she didn't fight sleep so much."

I stand once more, helping Monica back to her chair. "She's just afraid she's going to miss something. She doesn't think life should happen without her."

Monica sighs as she rubs Erica's back. "Jack has no issue with that at all."

"He likes to sleep?" Phoebe asks and I nod.

"Always. He'll be perfectly fine and as soon as we put him in his crib, he passes out."

"Erica's going to wind up learning how to exist on four hours of sleep a day, and Jack will need at least ten hours of sleep before being able to face the world," Monica adds in.

I put my hand on Monica's stomach again, which is still for the moment. "Then we have our wildcard here. Who knows what this one will be like?"

"So basically, you two will never sleep again," Mike says, and I know he's joking, but it's probably not that far off.

Fortunately, we hear Ross's voice at that moment. "Hey, guys. Dad said he's going to start cooking in about an hour—" He's cut off by Monica groaning, and he gives me a look before finishing the sentence. "So he wanted to know if you needed anything before then."

"Yes, please," she says, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing. She's been eating almost constantly lately; I know the baby's still growing and she needs a lot of energy to keep going, but it's still entertaining to watch.

"Anything in particular?" he asks, rolling his eyes.

"Not really. Just food."

"Ooo, me, too!" Phoebe exclaims, standing up. "I'll go with you!"

"Pregnant women," Ross says, leaning down to kiss Monica's head before he and Phoebe start walking back to the house.

"Should we put her down?" I ask Monica, gesturing to Erica.

She just shakes her head. "Couldn't do that to her—she'll wake up away from the action, and I don't want to deal with that kind of wrath."

I laugh in agreement; the only thing worse than an Erica cranky because she can't keep her eyes open a moment longer is an Erica who knows that stuff is going on and can't be a part of it.

Monica leans her head against Erica's; Mike starts to hum "Tiny Dancer," and without thinking, Monica starts to sing softly again. "Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand…"