Have you seen those memes floating around Facebook asking people to list the top ten books that have stuck with them through the years? I’ve clicked on list after list of very respectable, literary delights, 99% of them considered classics or books that should be read at some point in your life. But not one of these lists listed the book that I don’t go a day without thinking about. Stick with me here and I’ll explain.

At Christmas, I look forward to three gifts: two new pairs of running shoes and one new gadget. Anything else is just icing on the cake (and don’t get me wrong – cake is simply a delivery vehicle for icing in my world and I can never have enough icing so I like icing. A lot.). Over the years, the gadget has been anything from a new mp3 player to a fancy camera to one year, an iPad. Last year it was a Fitbit Force. I had wanted one of these for at least six months and I knew they were hard to find. But Santa came through and I was in heaven! Here was a cool bracelet to track not only how many steps I took, but how many flights of stairs I climbed, how many minutes I was really active, how many miles I traveled in a day, and how many calories I burned (so I knew just how much icing I could consume guilt free, you know). My family’s unwrapping, oohs, ahhs faded into the distance as I plugged my gadget into the computer and synched it all up. This was going to be so cool! I was going to have real time information on just how active I was right on my wrist! For an Excel spreadsheet data loving nerd like myself, this was the best thing ever.

Or at least it was until the day after Christmas when I faced down the dirty laundry.

Enter the book. Once upon a time, way back in my early education, I had to read a biography for English class. Somehow I got my hands on Cheaper by the Dozen by Frank B. Gilbreth Jr. and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey. The father of 12 kids, Frank Gilbreth Sr. was an efficiency expert in the early 1900’s. His entire life was centered around making the most of every moment, be it educating his kids non-stop about everything or figuring out how to do things as quickly as possible. He consulted for companies who wanted to streamline business, increase production, and save time and money. The practices he put in place in his work carried over to the home as well. This was a man who figured out if he buttoned his shirt from bottom to top instead of top to bottom, he saved 3 seconds getting ready in the morning, so that’s what he did.

This philosophy of saving steps, of trying to do things as efficiently as possible somehow sunk into my brain and stuck. What’s the most direct route to class? How can I get my chores done quicker? How can I load the laundry basket to ease unloading? What order should I run my errands in to save time and gas? When should I start the green beans so they are done and hot by the time the chicken is done? How can I get things done faster in as few steps as possible? Frank Gilbreth’s philosophy made happy, smart sense to me – until I opened my Fitbit, a gadget designed to do anything but get things done in the fewest steps possible.

Once in action, I realized this gadget on my wrist threw a wrench in my lifestyle. This need to get as many steps in per day as possible completely went against a core pillar of my thinking. This –this thing no longer cared that I could fit four people’s laundry in two baskets. It wanted it in four! Four separate baskets carried up the stairs at four different times!

The days I ran were joyous. Those were the days I blasted through my step goal and then some. Those were the days I gathered up left behind sweatshirts and books and socks on the bottom step to take up all at once, in the efficient order of the rooms upstairs. The days I didn’t run, those were the days I had to take the long way around the grocery store and try to smile as I passed my neighbors in aisles I had no reason to be in except for the fact they gave me twelve more steps. And still, some days, it wasn’t enough.

As the months went by, I began to resent this piece of plastic on my arm. I found myself sneaking around behind its digital screen back. Stacking the dishes so I only took one trip to the dishwasher, not sixteen. Checking groceries out at the self-checkout just so I could put as much stuff possible in one bag and make only one trip from the cart to the car. And sometimes, I even parked as close to a store’s front doors as possible because it saved time – and steps.

Months passed and I continued to live my double life up until mid-August. The day came (probably a run day) when I pressed the button on my Fitbit but things weren’t right. The digital screen looked faded. I chalked it up to the sun outside. A week later, the screen flickered. Another week or so went by, and my Fitbit screen was black. Nothing I did turned it on. I tried recharging it in three different plugs, two different USB ports. I pressed buttons. I cleaned the contact points. I even emailed Tech Support. I was told it was gone. It appeared I sweated it out, killed it with effort. (Or resentment. I didn’t discount that.) After all the miles we spent together, my Fitbit was done. But I wasn’t! This was not how it was supposed to end. This wasn’t how I wanted it to end. For starters, Christmas was months away! And I had really liked it for a moment, a mile, a staircase or twelve.

Sadly, I plugged it into my computer one last time (because I am ever a glass half full kind of gal). Nothing happened. No screen. No numbers. No lights. Nothing.

But wait…

My Fitbit app on the computer popped up.

I had steps – for that day.

I burned calories for that day.

I climbed stairs and traveled miles that day!

My Fitbit lived! I just couldn’t see it. But then, I did. The lack of a screen was a compromise. I didn’t have to give up my philosophy of efficiency. I just needed to know that should I choose to be efficient, it would be noted. But instead of requiring me to pack up a childhood memory in favor of health, I was free to make a choice without a blinking light scolding me. It was an offer of peace between my childhood and modern day technology, and it was liberating.

My Fitbit screen still doesn’t work, and because I’m not sure how long it will last, I’m eyeing a new fitness tracker for this year’s Christmas gadget. I am also digging out my copy of Cheaper by the Dozen just in case I need to come to an understanding with the new one. I’m all for steps. But every once in a while, I’m going to take the efficient way out.

Two baskets or four? Maybe tomorrow I’ll make it three.

No, I’m not Rick Riordan’s muse.  Far from it.  But I do claim Percy Jackson was one of my greatest achievements.  From the get go, I’ve handed my kids books to read.  When they were little, these books were greeted with excitement.  But then, as they got older, they began to have opinions.  What mom gave them was often greeted with anticipation, but more and more, with if not downright dismissal, a great lack of enthusiasm no matter how many librarians/magazines/trusted friends had recommended the book in the first place.

I stumbled across Percy Jackson in my search to find a book series as we waited for the next Harry Potter to be published.  It seemed to fit the bill and it had Greek gods to boot.  How could I go wrong?  So I came home and proceeded to have a conversation with my son that has been repeated repeatedly over the years.  It went something like this:

Me:  “Here.  Read this.”

N:  “No.”

Me:  “It’s really good.”

N:  “No.”

Me:  “Just read the first few chapters.”

N:  “No.”

You get the picture.  Percy sat on my son’s bookshelf for a good twelve months before, in a fit of desperate boredom one summer afternoon, he cracked it open.  The very next morning, we then proceeded to have another conversation that has been repeated repeatedly over the years.  It goes something like this:

N:  “Mom?  You know that book?  It has a sequel.  Can we go get it?”

Now, I don’t remember what I said the first time, but I’m sure I listened with grace and humility.

Oh, who am I kidding?  I mean really, how often do you get to say, “So, you liked it, huh?  The book you said you weren’t into, that you didn’t want to read?  The one your mother gave you and told you to read?  Yeah, that one?  You liked it?  Huh.”  In this house, as it turns out, that conversation comes up more often than you might think.

But this isn’t why I consider Percy Jackson my greatest achievement.  The reason I hold Percy near and dear is because six months ago, my son cleaned off his bookshelves to make room for new stories.  He then took a stack of books, Percy Jackson on top, into his sister’s room.  From the kitchen, I heard:

N:  “Here.  I don’t have room for these, but you might like them.”

A:  “I don’t want to read Percy Jackson.”

N:  “Yeah, you do.  It’s really good.”

A:  “I don’t care.  I don’t like books like that.”

N:  “You should really read it.”

A:  “No.”

Guess who is eagerly awaiting the last Heroes of Olympus book which is coming out on Tuesday?  And guess who is getting to tell his little sister, “So, you liked that book?  The one I gave you?  The one you didn’t want to read?  That one?”

Yeah, I think I’m going to let him have this one.

My mother has always been a very smart woman.  She understood that should a bookstore be in my vicinity, my allowance didn’t stand a chance.  Growing up we moved a lot.  While my world was always changing, I embraced the things that remained stable, such as my books.  My poor parents moved boxes and boxes of stories around the world, most likely because it was easier than explaining logic to a teenager.  I’m pretty sure there was great rejoicing when I married and my husband and I bought a home with an attic.  My dad was first in line to help install a floor.  And when the boxes made one last move and arrived on my doorstep to be put in that attic, I began to understand the sacrifice my parents made throughout the years.  They must have spent a fortune shipping those books all over the place.  Those suckers weighed a ton!