Having returned from our ultrasound, I can report to you the following facts about our baby, who is still not overly interested in entering the world:

She has plenty of amniotic fluid.

She is, according to the ultrasound tech "Moving around like she's got plenty of room in there." Except that no, she doesn't have plenty of room. I should know. There's no more room. She's just accomplishing all that kicking through the power of positive thinking.

Her heart rate is good.

She is, indeed, still a girl. Dan asked the lady to check.

She has Rice cheeks. For a few seconds, the tech let us look at her face in 4-D, which makes all those baby parts you're staring at on the screen actually look like a baby suddenly. Kate, as will not surprise anyone who knew myself and my siblings as children, has got some chubby, chubby cheeks. This was perhaps accentuated by the highly indignant frown she was wearing at the moment. Apparently, she is not a big fan of the ultrasound. It was adorable.

Lastly, and perhaps explaining the cheeks, the technician informed us that, based on her various measurements and calculations, which were entered into the computer and processed, Kate's estimated weight is nine pounds. Nine. My response to this was to put a lot of stock in the word "estimated" and focus on the umpteen stories I've heard of babies who were predicted, based on their ultrasounds, to weigh 10 pounds or more, only to emerge at more reasonable weights. But still. Nine pounds.

Dan's response was to laugh in an "I told you so" kind of way. Dan was a large baby himself, and he has been saying for months that he thinks Kate is going to be big. A few weeks ago our doctor guessed that the baby might weight 7 pounds at the most, and Dan pretty much told her she was crazy. She took that well, considering she's a highly-trained professional who was being called out by someone with absolutely zero baby-related experience. But now Dan has some justification for his belief in Our Giant Baby. There will be no living with him.

Of course, he might not laugh so hard if they have to put splints on his fingers after he holds my hand through the delivery of a nine pound baby. Ha. Ha. Ha.