Childbirth is not glamorous.

Not in any way, shape, or form.

Actually, for the most part, it's downright boring.

No one ever tells you that, though.

All the movies and TV shows make it seem like your water breaks and then labor starts, and even if it takes a while, it doesn't really take a while, and even though you're trying force another human being out of your body, you'll somehow still look pretty when you're screaming in agony.

None of this is true.

My water didn't break until I was a few hours into it.

I don't know if this makes me a horrible mother, but I had no idea I was in labor for a while. My doctor told me it was okay, and maybe even for the best, but it still feels weird to know this was happening and I had no idea.

I suppose that's an appropriate way to end this pregnancy, though, considering for the first two and a half months, I had no clue I was actually pregnant.

It seems like such a long time ago.

It seems like it was just yesterday.

But still…I did sort of think that once I went into labor, that would be it. I'd have the contractions, I'd have the baby…poof. Just like that.

There is a lot of waiting around, though.

It's no wonder they send women home if it's too early.

It's also not surprising that my doctor told me to try to sleep in between contractions.

I try—I really do. And for a few minutes here and there, I'm successful. But it's incredibly difficult to relax your body when you know that a contraction is coming, even if it's not coming for another ten minutes.

I'm also learning that contractions are exhausting. I feel like I'm running a marathon. That's the only reason I'm able to nod off for even a couple of minutes.

Chandler is being incredibly patient. His arm is around me, letting me lean against him; he lets me crush his hands every time a contraction hits. For hours. He's wonderful.

I'm going to do my best not to scream at him during this.

Another thing that makes it hard to sleep—someone constantly poking around in your vagina while you're trying to rest. I know the nurses are just doing what they're supposed to be doing, but it doesn't make the situation any less awkward.

Somewhere in the early morning, I give up attempting sleep—I'm only getting irritated that I can't sleep.

Chandler sings "Moon River" to me, tunelessly, but it makes me laugh, distracting me for a few minutes, even getting me to sing along.

This may be one of the reasons people find us nauseating, or at least why they assume our life is perfect.

I'm pulled from my thoughts by another contraction; this is a pain unlike anything I've ever felt before. It's not always the worst pain—yet—or the most intense pain—yet—but it's definitely like nothing else.

For a few moments, my stomach becomes like a rock as it tries to expel the baby, kicking it out of its home.

I collapse against Chandler, trying to breathe, trying to think of anything but how much I'm already dreading the next contraction, when I realize my doctor is in front of me, grinning. "Good news! You're at ten centimeters."

I hear Chandler's voice in my ear, but all I can do is wonder how my doctor managed to poke around down there without me even noticing.

All of a sudden, I hear "delivery room," and Chandler is trying to help ease me out of bed and onto a gurney.

I feel like I'm having an out of body experience, like this is only sort of happening to me.

We don't get very far before I seize up again, crying out in agony, wringing my husband's hand, the contraction stronger this time. They give me a minute, the doctor checking me again, before they continue wheeling me down the hall, a little faster now.

In the delivery room, they want me to switch beds again, and I almost refuse—women do this squatting in fields, there's no reason why I can't do it on gurney. But my body's on autopilot, and I slide from one bed to the next, the machines hooked up to me once more. I feel Chandler maneuver behind me, pulling me against his chest, his hands gently holding my legs.

I never, ever would have suspected that Chandler Bing would be this involved in the delivery process. Even after we decided we wanted kids, I always sort of figured that he'd be supportive and stand by my side and hold my hand, maybe pass out at some point. I was surprised that he managed to survive Erica giving birth to the twins, but he's been super-involved this entire time, learning as much as he can about the whole process, asking questions, making plans…

But this is as much a miracle for him as it is for me.

The doctor tells me not to push yet, and I almost reach out and rip off her head.

My body isn't really giving me much of an option at this point.

"This part's no fun," I tell Chandler, breathing heavily. "I like the first part—let's go back and do the first part."

I feel him smile against my hair. "You mean the actual making of the baby? Sounds good to me."

I start to laugh, then a contraction hits again, my whole body tightening as I try not to push, listening to Chandler in my ear telling me to breathe.

"I want you to push next time."

The words I've longed to hear, and the words I've been dreading. "Really?"

"Yeah. It'll still probably take a while, but I want you to start pushing. You'll still have some time to rest in between them."

It sure as hell doesn't feel like it's going to take a while—I swear I can feel this kid pushing out right now.

I hear Chandler whisper to me, "You can do this. You can do anything." His grip on my thighs tightens and I suddenly feel very focused—somehow, knowing that he's here, that he believes in me, is what I need. It's all I need.

I link my fingers through his and hold on tight.

I hear the doctor tell me to push, and I do—with everything I've got, but I have no idea how to do this, how to actually work with what my body's trying to do naturally.

The doctor's encouraging me, telling me to keep going. I can hear Chandler in my ear, even though I can't make out the words.

My body gives out a moment before she tells me to stop pushing, and I lean against my husband, gasping.

This is so much harder than I ever expected.

"I was kind of hoping that'd be it," he whispers to me, and I laugh. I don't know how he does it, how it manages to do it every time, but he always says just what I need to hear when I need to hear it.

"You're an idiot," I tell him, smiling. He tightens his arms around me and remains silent.

Waiting.

We're all waiting.

Dr. Rosen tells me to relax because I have a long way to go.

I think I'm going to throw up.

That one push felt like it took everything in me. How am I supposed to keep this up?

But I do. Somehow…I do.

I push when she tells me to push. I hold Chandler's hands so tightly I feel like I have to be crushing the bones.

He never complains. He just keeps telling me to breathe.

I focus on his voice. I can't think about how much this hurts or how tired I am or how badly I just want to give up, so I focus on him.

The love of my life. The guy who's never left my side, who will never leave my side.

It helps.

I breathe as deeply as I can as I push. I try to relax a little, try to find my body's natural rhythm to this.

"Don't push next time—give your body a break."

The woman must be insane. I'm supposed to try to stop this now? "I don't need a break."

"Do it anyway."

I look up at Chandler—he's sweating almost as much as I am. "I want to push."

"I know, baby. I know. But give it a minute. Please?"

Another contraction tightens my body and I think I'm going to cry. Not pushing at this point is worse; my body wants it out. Actually, my body is still pushing without my help.

I hear Chandler telling me to breathe and for a moment, I think I'm actually going to kill him. I want to tell him that I don't need to be reminded to breathe, but I realize I'm holding my breath; I let it out through my teeth and try not to think evil thoughts toward my husband.

Then the doctor says she saw the head.

I've spent most of a year with this baby—I've felt it move, kick, hiccup, stretch, punch, and flip around. It's moved my organs out of the way and I swear that I've felt its little fingers pushing at my pelvic bone. But somehow, the head being visible makes it real. Really real.

There's actually a little person coming out of me.

I don't know that there's anything weirder than that.

The doctor wants me to start pushing again.

I push with a small sense of relief—if she saw the head, this has got to be nearly over.

I let myself believe that for the next four or five contractions. After that, I feel my optimism fading. Apparently the head being visible means almost nothing.

I really can't keep doing this.

The doctor yells at me to stop pushing, that I need to rest again.

I don't fight her this time.

"It's crowning. Want to feel?"

Chandler and I look at each other in disgust for a moment before we both reach down—this seems too gross to pass up.

Oh, my God, it's a head. The top of the baby's head is hanging out of my body and I can feel it.

"That's weird. That's weird!" I exclaim, grabbing Chandler's hand once more.

The doctor tells me not to push, and I only half listen. My body is doing a lot of this on its own—I'm just along for the ride.

I can hear Chandler whispering in my ear, encouraging me, but I can't focus on the words. I'm so tired.

I keep pushing. And pushing. And pushing.

It seems that a baby can crown for a lot longer than one would expect.

Part of me feels very detached from all this right now, and maybe I am. Maybe my brain is thinking about this clinically because that's the only way to get through an ordeal like this.

You can't focus on the whole because that's just too much to process. You have to break it down into bits and pieces and moments.

The doctor tells me she wants me to push harder now, to give her more.

I see spots and I'm suddenly excessively angry—isn't that what I've been doing for hours? I'm not sure what I say to her, but it probably comes out like a death threat.

"You can do it," Chandler whispers, pulling my legs back, leaning against my back a little to help me push.

I love this man.

"Push!" Somehow, I do push harder. I don't know how, but I do.

All sound around me is gone.

All I can do is push.

I hear Chandler telling me to breathe, but I can't. I need it to push.

My entire body strains, and I feel like I'm about to explode.

I gasp in air finally, panting as I yell, the verbal release actually feels like it's helping.

"Stop pushing."

I collapse against Chandler as the doctor smiles at us. "The head's out. Just gonna clean the gook out of its nose and mouth, and then you can push some more."

I think I do actually start crying; it's still not over? "I still have to get the shoulders out?" I feel like I have nothing left to give. My body is literally on the verge of collapse. The doctor tells me that the rest of the baby usually comes out faster once the head's out, but I don't think I believe her.

I feel another contraction tear through me, but I force myself to wait. Something clicks in my head—that's my baby down there.

"Almost," I whisper. "Almost."

"I need another big push, Monica. You're almost there. Your baby's almost here. You ready?"

I nod, and the world around me slows down. I take a deep breath and lean forward, pushing. I feel Chandler's hands tighten on my thighs, and I tighten my grip on his fingers.

All I can hear is my heartbeat.

I can feel Chandler's voice rumbling through my back.

I push.

I feel like I can't push anymore.

I take another breath and push anyway.

I close my eyes and scream. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH."

Then I hear crying.

Chandler's face is pressed next to mine; I open my eyes.

Dr. Rosen is smiling at us, holding up a baby.

Time goes back to normal.

There it is.

There he is.

Our baby.

I do the most cliché thing in the world; I burst into tears.

A moment later, she puts him on my chest, still naked, the cord still connecting him to me.

I didn't realize that actually happened; I thought it was one of those things that people made it up, but there he is.

I wrap my arms around him and weep, my body shaking. I look up at Chandler—he's a mess. His hand comes out to stroke the baby's head and he laughs in wonder.

"He's so tiny," he says.

"He's perfect."

Along with watching Jack and Erica come into the world and marrying Chandler, this is one of the best moments of my life.

I feel my heart breaking—I love this little guy so much.

He wiggles against me, his cries already gone, and I kiss the top of his head. I start to laugh.

"What?" Chandler asks, sniffling.

"He's so gross," I gasp out. I kiss his head again—he really is a sight right now, all covered in fluid and what looks like cottage cheese. "Oh, my God, he's disgusting." I'm laughing and crying at the same time, and even though my brand-new son is kind of gross at the moment, I love him so much.

I feel Chandler laugh behind me; he puts his hand gently on the baby's back. His eyes open and he stares at us. "Hi, beautiful," I whisper, and his eyes drift shut again.

"He's exhausted, you know," Chandler says to me. "It's hard work forcing your way out of Mom."

My breath hitches as I cry some more, and I pull the baby closer, wrapping my arms around him a little more.

"We need to get him cleaned up," Dr. Rosen says softly, and I stare at her blankly for a few moments. She smiles at me and holds scissors out to Chandler. "Want to cut the cord?"

He looks unwilling to take his hand off the baby for a moment, but reaches for the scissors; I shift the baby a little so the doctor can finish clamping the cord, and then Chandler cuts it. I feel a little sad for a second—my baby's no longer a part of me.

I reluctantly pass him off to the nurse and watch her take him to be cleaned and weighed, and feel such a sense of loss without him in my arms that I want to curl into a ball.

"I'm sure you don't want to hear this," Dr. Rosen says, patting my arm, "but you're going to need to push some more."

My heart flies into my throat and I Chandler jumps to attention behind me. "What?!" he exclaims, sounding panicked.

"It's okay! You just need to deliver the placenta."

I laugh again, feeling my body relax marginally. "God, I thought you were going to tell me there was another one on its way."

She laughs with me, shaking her head. "No, I'm pretty sure we would have seen that before now. I'm going to massage your uterus, though, if it doesn't start to happen on its own, okay?"

I feel my lip curl up and before I can stop myself, I say, "The only person I want massaging my uterus is my husband."

The doctor snickers as Chandler buries his face in my neck, his body shaking with laughter. "That's your call. It might take longer to come out without help, but it'll happen eventually. Also, along those lines, we usually have someone massage your uterus every couple of hours after birth to help it go back down to its normal size; it can be painful, but helpful. It's also completely up to you."

"No offense, honey," Chandler says, wrapping his arms around me. "But I think I'm okay with someone else playing with your uterus right now."

I smile, and look at my baby longingly. "When can I hold him again?" The nurse puts a little hat on his head and finishes wrapping him up. A few moments later, he's back in my arms, and I sort of miss his naked, disgusting little body pressed against me. "When am I supposed to try nursing him?"

The doctor shrugs, rubbing his cheek with one finger. "Any time you want to. He's your baby. Don't worry if he's not into it yet, though. It can sometimes take a few hours."

I wiggle my arm a little, and Chandler reaches around my shoulder, helping push the gown out the way, down my arm, and I bring the baby to my breast. I pause for a moment, not really sure what to do; he scrunches up his face and not much else.

"Give him a chance," the doctor says softly, probably already able to sense my distress at not being able to do this. "You're both new at this."

Chandler and I stare at him for a few minutes, as if everything hangs on this one moment. It might as well, at least with the way I'm feeling.

Finally, his mouth opens and I put my nipple in his mouth; he latches on and starts sucking.

"That's my boy," Chandler says, sounding kind of proud.

"You're a pig," I say softly, even as I nestle into him further.

"Well, there's no doubting who he belongs to," he tells me, kissing my cheek, and I roll my eyes at the doctor. "How does it feel?"

I just shake my head. "I don't know. I'll let you know when I can process it."

"How are you feeling?"

That's a loaded question. "Tired. Sore. Happy." I feel tears well up in my eyes again; I'm so overcome by just everything that I can't express myself. "So many things. How are you?"

"Overwhelmed, but in the best way possible. God, he's beautiful."

I don't know if I've ever seen anything more fascinating than my son nursing at my breast. All I can do is nod. "He really is. He looks just like you."

"Maybe he'll grow out of it."

"I hope not." Maybe he will, but if our son grows up looking like his father, I'll be happy.

"Seven pounds, eleven ounces, nineteen and a half inches long, born at 7:08am on July 19," the nurse says, walking over to us. "Do we have a name?"

Chandler and I look at each other for a moment—we more or less settled on names a few days ago. We look back at the nurse; "William," I say, and I hear Chandler echo it beside me. I whip my head back to him and start to laugh.

"What's funny?" Dr. Rosen asks as the nurse writes down his name.

"That wasn't the name we decided on," Chandler tells her, chuckling.

"We haven't even mentioned that name in months," I add. "But, he just looks…"

"Like a William," Chandler finishes.

"William Charles Bing," I say to my son, still nursing quietly. "Hi."

"That's a fancy name for such a little guy," the nurse says, smiling at us. "You're sure?"

"Completely," Chandler answers.

I stroke the baby's—William's—head for a few minutes, Chandler's chin on my shoulder. "Can we speed up the whole placenta thing?" I finally ask. "I'm kind of ready to be done with that part."

"Sure. If you're still opposed to anyone but your husband massaging your uterus—" Chandler chuckles in my ear, his mind automatically thinking dirty thoughts. "We can give you a shot to speed it up."

"Shot, please," I say instantly, and a few moments later the nurse is swabbing my thigh, injecting me. The doctor resumes her position at my feet.

"This should only be a few minutes. After that, we'll get you cleaned up and bring you to recovery. And, I'm not sure, but I think you still have a gaggle of people out there, waiting to hear all about Baby Bing."

"God, I completely forgot about that," I say, and I see Chandler nod.

"I'll go tell them. In a minute."

I mostly manage to ignore the contractions I feel again, though they're significantly gentler than just a few minutes ago. Within minutes, the placenta is held up for us both to see, and Chandler grimaces, looking a little nauseated.

Doesn't do much for me, either.

The nurse explains that I need to be stitched up, that I'll need to be numbed a little for it, and I just nod; it doesn't matter. I can deal with the pain. I have my son.

"All right—let's get you back to your room. You're going to walk, okay?"

I look at the doctor for a second and nod, though it doesn't occur to me until I'm in a standing position that I haven't actually been on my feet since late last night. Chandler keeps me upright as we walk down the hall to my room, the doctor finally excusing herself to look in on another patient, promising she'll be back to check on us.

I finally hand the baby to Chandler, who has been extraordinarily patient as he waits to get his hands on his son, and sit down—very, very—carefully. I love watching Chandler with his kids—the look of pure, unadulterated love and adoration on his face almost too much to take sometimes.

He's such a good father.

"Honey?"

He looks up at me for a second, grinning, before his attention returns to the baby. "Yeah?"

"Can you bring Jack and Erica in here first? I'm sure it'll ruffle everyone else's feathers, but I just want the twins to meet the baby first."

"Of course. You think your parents even have them here yet, though?" He pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. "Sorry—stupid question." He gently passes William back to me, kissing my forehead. I tilt my head up to him, and he kisses me gently, reverently. "I love you," he whispers. "Both of you. I'll be back in a few minutes."

William's eyes are open, unfocused, but mostly looking in my direction. "Hi, sweetheart," I whisper, tears sliding down my cheeks once more as we're alone for the first time, and I'm completely at a loss for words. "It's funny that I can't think of anything to say right now, when all I did was bombard you with conversation when you were in my belly. I love you. I love you so much. I will love you until the day I die. Your big brother and sister…you're going to have so much fun with them. They'll help you be a baby. They're silly but they'll love you, too. And your daddy…well, I think you already know about him. You know he's silly and funny, and that he will go to the end of the earth to make sure you're happy." My words catch in my throat as my new son sleeps against my chest.

I look up a few minutes later when I hear the door open, my face breaking out into a grin when I see Jack and Erica in their father's arms; their faces light up when they see me.

"Hi, babies."

"Hi!" Erica exclaims as Chandler brings them over to the bed, and they wiggle out of his arms, plopping down next to me. I reach out a hand, stroking first Jack's hair, then Erica's, and my heart feels fuller than I ever thought it could.

I smile up at Chandler, and he has tears in his eyes. "You were right," I whisper.

"About what?"

"I don't love him more; I just love them all differently."

He winks at me, putting a hand on each of the twins' shoulders. "Jack, Erica…this is your brother."

Jack leans forward as I shift the baby in my arms, his little hand stretching out to William. "Be gentle," I say, shifting the baby closer. He delicately taps a finger against the baby's leg, looking at him intently. Not to be left out, Erica crawls onto my legs, stretching herself up to look at him.

"I can't believe we have three of these things," Chandler says softly, and I laugh a little.

"I know. What have we gotten ourselves into? Can you say 'hi' to William?" They both look up at me, confused, so I point to the baby. "This is your brother, William. Can you say 'William'?"

I see Jack trying to form the word, his little bottom lip quivering as he tries to for the letter "W" on purpose. "William," I say to him, slowly, sounding it out.

"Hi," Erica says, softer this time, and I'm impressed at her restraint. Without me even noticing, she's moved to straddle my thighs, her hand on the baby's arm.

"He's your little brother," I say to her, and she looks up, recognizing the word "brother."

"Bahbuh?" she asks, pointing at Jack.

"That's right, Eri," Chandler says, pointing at Jack. "Brother." He points to William. "Brother."

"William," I add, wanting to get them used to his name. Hell, wanting to get myself used to his name.

Jack makes a face, unable to get the hang of the new name right now. But he stands up and moves next to his sister, bending over the baby and giving him a kiss.

Just when I thought I couldn't cry any harder. I look up at Chandler—he isn't doing much better.

"I love you," I whisper.

"I love you, too."