Back to Zero: What My Fitbit and My Dog Taught Me About a Day Well Lived
When the Whole House is Asleep and You’re Not
The house is dark and a bit chilly. I have left the windows cracked and the air off. You can smell the fresh cold air — it is the beginning of spring and winter just won’t go away. It is 3am and I stumble to the bathroom — middle-aged, three kids, my bladder just can’t make it through the night anymore. I sit. And I do what I always do when I sit anywhere: I check my Fitbit. The steps, the miles, the zone minutes, the calories. I already know what they’ll say. Zero. It all resets at midnight. And yet, I check anyway.
Why do I check when I already know it is going to read zero?
The Dog I Wasn’t Supposed to Get
I didn’t have any answers. And honestly, my mind wasn’t looking for any. That’s not what the mind does at 3am. It just bounces. It wanders. It pieces things together in the dark without asking permission. And right at that moment, it went straight to Bandit. Our dog. The one who gets up at the same time every morning and every night around 8:30 puts himself to bed — no fuss, no negotiation, just done. I thought about his days.
Bandit, a showstopper — a blue merle with one blue eye that has a brown dot in it and one brown eye with a blue dot in it. His coat is short and impossibly soft, a striking mix of blue, brown and hints of white, and he has the sweetest face wrapped in white and brown fur. He is, in my completely objective opinion, the perfect dog. And he was so worth the wait.
I couldn’t always name what I was looking for — the unconditional love, the companionship, the particular way a house feels when there’s a dog in it. Maybe all of it. But I knew I needed it. Jarrod opposed the idea immediately and rightfully so. So the girls and I made our case. Again and again. There was a checklist, shelters, a lot of scrolling, a lot of rejection. Six months later I found him. And I think that’s partly why he feels so perfect. Finding him was earned. He fit into this family as if he had always been here.
What a Dog Knows About a Good Day
Before the house comes alive, it is just me and him. He goes out, he eats, he finds me for a snuggle. Simple and quiet. Our little window before the morning takes over. And then — 8am. Shoes, coats, backpacks. This is where Bandit earns his name.
Each girl heads to her cubby by the front door and starts pulling out shoes and socks, laying them on the ground, putting on their armor for the day. Bandit starts licking their faces as they sit. And then — he snatches a shoe and runs. They laugh and scream and chase after him and it turns into a full game of keep away. But when mom comes after him, he sadly puts it down and gives his sweetest face. For the moment. Before he sneaks back for someone else’s sock.
Shoes found, shoes lost, shoes eventually on — we head to the bus stop. All of us — Esme, Aura, Ivy, two parents and a very happy dog. We wave Esme off and head home.
The Whole Herd, Home
At 12:10 we head back. Our neighborhood has no sidewalks — the street rolls straight into people’s yards — so we wait in a long patch of grass between two fences, maybe fifteen feet wide, a fire hydrant on one end and a telephone pole on the other. It’s a quiet street but a lived-in one. The same dog walkers pass by, the same cars turning off their lunch routes. We all play Lava Monster in the grass, me and Jarrod included, chasing and being chased.
We usually hear it before we see it. Someone always yells — Esme’s bus! — and we all gather.
I am not sure what everyone else does in that moment, because I am busy looking for her face in the window. When she finds us she smiles — that sweet, full smile — and I never want to miss it. She comes barreling down the stairs, someone calls out hi to Mr. Wally, she waves thank you and then she goes straight to hug someone. The person varies by the day. It is such a sweet moment that I make sure to notice it. To pause. To soak it in.
Bandit hangs back a little — the bus makes him nervous. But he stays. He knows who is about to appear at the top of those stairs. So he holds his ground, patient, watching the door. And when she appears his tail wags so hard I think it might just wag right off. His herd is back together.
We walk home — sometimes slow, sometimes a race to see who hits the driveway first. No matter the speed, Bandit has his head held high, alert, making sure all his sheep turn into the driveway. As we walk through the door and the shoes start flying off, Bandit is counting his sheep. Looking at his numbers.
It Is a Day Well Lived
I don’t think the numbers on my Fitbit mean much in the grand scheme of things. I think they just ground me. Proof that I had a good day. That I moved my body. That I kept going. When I look at them before bed I feel every step was earned — not in the sense of a workout, but in the sense that I am tired because each step meant something. And when I look at them at 3am, zeros staring back at me, I know I will have another day to earn. But before that, I can sleep a little longer.
Bandit, I think, feels something like that too. He worked hard to get his herd home. And when the shoes start flying off and everyone settles in, he can rest.
It is a day well lived.
I wonder what you count. What small thing grounds you, tells you the herd is home, tells you the day was lived. It doesn’t have to be steps. It just has to be yours.