Eight o’clock rolls around and the house finally starts to sound like it’s winding down, but my brain hasn’t gotten the memo. I look at my Fitbit like it personally betrayed me, because somehow it still says zero steps. Zero. As if I haven’t walked this house from one end to the other all day long. Up and down the stairs multiple times to check on C and to get to my office. As if I haven’t bent, lifted, cleaned, reached, stretched, and hustled. As if motherhood doesn’t count as movement unless it happens on a treadmill. I tap it like that’s going to change anything. It doesn’t. It just…