I write about sleep a lot, largely because I don’t get enough of it. I now know this for a fact because the new, fancier Fitbit my daughter gave me tells me so. In fact, it tells me that I have not gotten eight hours of sleep in any night since Mother’s Day.


The problem is that there’s not much to be done about this. When my Fitbit tells me that I need to get more steps, I can go for a walk. When it tells me that I woke 24 times last night, it’s not clear what I should do. Put the animals in the garage where I can’t hear their yelling? Train my husband not to wake me when he gets up in the middle of the night to go to work?

I even wake myself. I find myself thinking, when I rise out of sleep into consciousness for a moment thinking that I need to do something for a client or what have you, that this is count as “restless” in my Fitbit sleep record, and try hard to get back into a sound sleep as soon as possible.

Even so, I am lucky to hit seven hours.

Maybe I should turn off my Fitbit silent alarm and just sleep until I wake up. Or go to bed earlier. Or stop worrying about it.