Why Query Tracker Is Like Fertility Friend

Years ago, before I had birthed me three buoyant boys, I used to frequent a site called Fertility Friend. One could track one's BBT (basal body temperature) each morning to determine when the time was ripe for baby making. You had to lie quite still and slip the thermometer under the tongue, lest a sudden movement jack your temperature up a degree and skew your results.

This clever site would track your ups and downs on a little chart, showing the slight dip in temp before the release of this month's Most Glorious and Noble and Hopeful Egg, and then the rise afterward. And, if the egg met its match among those wee struggling swimmers, the upward trend might carry on, up and up, and on...on toward baby, and infinity.

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match!

I used this site not because I had any real trouble making those babies--in fact, quite the opposite. I made a whole slew of 'em. I used it because I was obsessive. I had to know. I didn't want to guess. I wanted to see the telltale rise that spoke of success long before an EPT from the local drugstore could pick up the minute traces of whatever hormone etched two pink lines instead of one.

I have always hated waiting.

I gave all that obsession up after my first son. It didn't seem important anymore. I had one now, and that was all that really counted. I suppose I ought to visit again, should I ever find my password, and say: "Carry on, good folk! Your day will come!" But I'd feel like an interloper by now.

But I still remember the forums--the hopeful "baby dust" that posters would scatter on the mournful whose charts went awry. Posts were filled with dancing "hugs" and sparkly unicorns and angry little green faces of rage at AF (Aunt Flo), whose arrival put off success for at least another month. There was also a gallery of charts--failed charts, charts that showed ovulation, charts for women 40 and older, charts for overweight women, charts for women five feet tall who lived in Poughkeepsie, and charts that resulted in squealing babies.

It was all completely fascinating and addictive.

So not long ago I found this awesome site Query Tracker, where hopeful writers gather to find an agent, and track their stats for queries, submissions, rejections, feedback, and more. I was reminded of those long-ago days when I would scour the Fertility Friend forums. On Query Tracker, instead of uncomfortable details about "fluids," one can find out whether an agent is a non-responder, writes a polite form rejection, or mocks her own slushpile through her Twitter feed. One can search for success stories that show the hopeful line of dots on the chart trending higher (a partial request!) and higher still (a full request!!)  and finally—sometimes—reach a pinnacle of delirious excitement (I got an offer of representation!!!) Jackpot, baby, you've got a bun in the oven.

One can console the downtrodden who, week after week, failed to find themselves "knocked up" but have a gleam in their eye that won't quit. One can cheer on the excited who are "late" and waiting, waiting for that answer. One can gnaw vaguely on one's jealously while reading the stories of others who have made it. Yes, we're happy for them, but I want one too, damn it!

It is all completely fascinating and addictive.

One hopes that each and every one of those Trackers will walk away with a twinkle in the eye that, 9 months, or 18 months, or 2 years later will bear fruit. They'll have something to hold in their hands. They'll say, "I made it. I made this." Isn't there enough luck and goodness in the world for all of us, then?

And one day, walking home from the train on a spring evening, a glimpse through the trees of red shirt, green shirt, flashing among the shrubs. Boys—grown boys, laughing—chasing through the spangled light. And hope.

That Little Kicky Thing

That baby hasn't gotten out yet, but he has a fine time trying. Thump, thump. Little heartbeat with limbs. Sometimes you feel a little shimmy-pop or a shark-fin slide against the outer dome of his prison. He's somewhere in there blinking in the darkness. He hasn't got a name.

This is an impossibly strange situation. Three-pound homunculus, tapping at the walls. You can see him rise and fall like an undulation in the earth, or someone shifting restlessly under bedclothes. Sometimes he gets feisty, and strikes outward with a sharp jab. At some point it will hurt.

Sometimes it feels like a bellyful of discontented pickerels.

With the first one you thought: I will never be closer to this child than I am now. But you understand now that this is not true. He's a fond and effortlessly close physical shifting, a comfortable (or not-so-comfortable) presence, but he's fierce already to be on his own. He'll get out. He will eventually turn to you and tell you solemnly that his cozy needs zipping or his water cup has spilled, or that his stuffed snake "has a long tongue that gives him bad licks and causes him to be mean to all other animals" (a la Eldest Son). The tongue of said snake, you'll notice, bears a small Band-Aid pilfered from the medicine cabinet.

You will in all outcomes like him better then than you do today. You shall be friends.

But today, he struggles and thrums down deep. It's not long now until this is gone, and gone forever. On to better things. Just as you cannot fully remember the pain of a broken limb or labor itself, you will never again remember this sensation—not in the bone and gut. No chance odor will bring it back, unexpected, waiting in line at the store. Not the certain flavor of spring onrushing, nor the wind.

Maybe this music will bring a small reminder, though, one day. Sitting here waiting for his eyes to open nine, ten, eleven weeks down the line, and feeling him stir and turn.