Sunshine warm on my face

Yesterday started off with my son coming into our bedroom with his pants around his ankles, where he proceeded to pee on our carpet and then tried to dig his way back into his room via our closet.

It ended in learning about the death of a co-worker who was instrumental in moving us to Madison.

Daniel’s bizarre actions confirmed something I suspected–my kid is a sleepwalker. It doesn’t happen often, thank goodness. It’s just a little spooky, that’s all. What parent wouldn’t be unnerved to watch their kid’s face go from crocodile tears to utter blankness as they try to coax the kid back to bed. Then, 15 minutes later, have the kid wake up crying, saying he ‘got lost’.

And 15 minutes after that, he completely forgot about it.

The next time it happens (and I’m pretty sure it will), I won’t be so freaked out about it. Heck, maybe the third time, I can even have fun with it: Daniel, Mommy says to sweep the floor. Oh, how cute that he can clean in his sleep!)

Daniel’s antics, though, were made a little bittersweet in learning that the man who interviewed my hubby for his job had died. Back in November, this man brought Jon and I up for his interview. He took us to dinner, drove us around Middleton (a suburb of Madison). He was a very nice man, and his death has shook the office immensely.

I remember the last time I dealt with a co-worker’s death. It was way back when I worked for Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois. One of the ladies I worked with died of cancer. I didn’t really know her that well, but I did go to her wake. Her death, however, made very little impact. Oh, people were sad she was gone, but in such a large office, no one was truly affected. Only her co-workers missed her, but because she sort of kept to herself, it was pretty easy to forget her. I can’t remember her name now.

But in the office I work now, people are mourning. We held a chapel service. We prayed in small groups. People congregate in the corridors, talking in hushed whispers. People I only say hi to stop, wanting to talk a little more, or even hug, wanting the comfort of touch.

I don’t think this man will be forgotten. Not after all he has done.

Today, when I picked up Daniel from preschool, he picked a leaf and held it to his cheek. “It feels warm!”

“That’s from the sunshine,” I told him. “It’s been sitting in the sun.” I took the leaf and pressed it to my cheek as well. He was right–it did feel warm. Eventually the leaf got dropped somewhere. I forgot where it fell. But my cheek still feels warm from where I pressed it. I hope it will stay warm for a long time.

Goodbye, Dave. I know I said this to you before, but thank you for bringing us here. You’ll be sorely missed.

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