My kids have figured out how to game my FitBit.
I admit it: I’m a slave to my FitBit (and, boy, I wish someone were paying me to proselytize about the FitBit, but this is all just me; and for you Luddites out there, a FitBit is a very fancy pedometer). I compete with friends for steps, most notably the Duchess. This is a blood sport, my friends. No joke. Many a night, I say to Adam, “S**! I’ve got another 1200 steps to reach my goal and the Duchess is way ahead,” so I stay put wherever I am and march in place. (Adam once asked, “Do you think the Duchess ever just marches in place, cursing your name?” I checked with her husband: She does indeed!)
I have made my kids suffer for the FitBit. “We’ll walk there!” I say, to which they groan, but don’t even bother complaining because they know it’s hopeless. The other night, my son, sick in bed, asked me to go get him a glass of water. “Really?” I asked. “Now? Because the FitBit is charging, so any steps I take won’t be recorded, which means they are POINTLESS STEPS! I do not tolerate POINTLESS STEPS!” But he gave me his sick face (okay, so he had strep) so I got him the glass of water. But I was bitter about it.
On our trip to Iceland, I had the following conversation with my children:
Me: So how can we get back to the hotel, but manage to take 2,000 steps to do so?
Pie: How would you know it’s 2,000 steps?
Doodles: Are you kidding? She’s using child labor for her FitBit.
This past Saturday I went to Shabbat services. But I actually considered not going, because wearing the FitBit with a dress is near impossible. I either have to hook it on my bra or on the waist of my tights, neither of which is comfortable and both of which show through dresses. I did go. Without the FitBit. And I was bitter about it. I tried not to think of all those wasted, uncounted steps.
For a while, the kids fought the FitBit, but they’ve recently embraced it; they’ve learned they can make the FitBit work for them. The other night, my son was downstairs. “Mom, can you go upstairs and get my book for me?” he asked.
“You’ve got legs!” I said. “Use them!”
He batted his eyelashes at me. “I’m just trying to help you get more FitBit steps!”
I got him the book.
The girl knows now the magic nighttime words are “I don’t have enough steps!” She’ll often ask me in the evening, “Do you have enough steps?” Because she knows if the answer is “no,” then she’s guaranteed a good half hour of Just Dance with me.
Because the steps must be achieved.
The kids know to fear those days when I stop suddenly and say, “I forgot my FitBit!” Because where ever we are, no matter what we are doing, I will return home for it. The one or two times I couldn’t do this, I spent a day watching the Duchess rack up the steps without me. And I was bitter about it.
Have a FitBit? Let me know. I’ll compete against you, too. Really, it’s all just fun and games (as long as I’m winning. No competitive streak here, thank you very much. And no, I’m not marching in place while I type. At least, not much).
