15 years ago, today

Dane and Jon | March 2000

THE BUILDUP
Happy 15th, Dane. Keeping this project a secret for the past three months has been tough… Thankfully, I got to practice my lips-are-sealed skills as an eight year old. First, I was sworn to secrecy that mom was expecting, and then, I had to keep your name under lock and key until the day you were born – even amidst my friends’ relentless guessing and teasing that we were naming you “cut the cheese.” Every few days while dad drove Joelle and me to school, he’d ask (really it was more of a warning) “you haven’t told anyone…have you?”

FINALLY…
Paul Revere’s “the British are coming” didn’t have anything on daddy’s middle-of-the-night “he’s coming!”

Groggy, I remember responding with a tired and confused “what?”

“Dane’s coming,” he said. “Get up! Quickly. Go pack lunch for you and your sister.”

Originally, Joelle and I were supposed to go to Bette Hair’s house while dad took mom to the hospital, but you weren’t playing around this time (you had caused quite the false alarm the week earlier on St. Patrick’s Day). Dad sped to Johnston-Willis, while Joelle and I sat in the backseat playing 20 questions about when we’d get to meet you and whether we’d be late to school.

Dad dropped us off at the hospital entrance before going to park the Passat. While mom’s water broke in the maternity ward lobby, dad broke the car by frantically driving over a concrete divider in the parking lot (nothing some strategic zip-tying couldn’t fix, he said).

A few minutes later, dad took off down the hall with the nurse who was pushing mom’s wheelchair. Then the waiting began. Joelle and I had the pleasure of sitting in the waiting room where we watched more than four hours of middle-of-the-night soaps.

“WE HAVE TO PEE!!!!!” we screamed in unison when daddy finally reemerged around 5:30 a.m.

We were so distracted by our desperation to reach a bathroom that we rode the elevator, legs crossed, in silence. Relieved, we reunited with daddy at the elevator bank and finally asked how mommy was.

“She’s good,” he said with a smile slowly spreading across his face. Then, as the elevator doors closed he nonchalantly added “And so is Dane.”

“Dane’s here?!” we both squealed, jumping up and down.

We then got to meet and hold you before Daddy drove us to school. And in case you were wondering, yes…not only was I on time, but I was the first one there.

PROUD DAD

Subtlety was not dad’s strong suit…at least not when it came to bragging about his kids (I’m sure his co-workers can attest to this). I also don’t think you could ever use the word “underwhelming” to describe the things he did.

Celebrating your birth was no exception. There were – of course – the birth announcements with the Shania Twain lyric “our dreams came true because of you.” There were the blue, sparkly “It’s a Boy” pencils that were ready to be given out to our classes. There were the custom “it’s a hersHEy” bars with all of your measurements. And there were celebratory cigars (dad loved a good cigar). I think if given the chance he would have shouted from the rooftops and sent out a press release to the Richmond Times Dispatch.

He was also proud of your name. He loved how unique it was, and he loved that your middle name, Max, paid homage to his own dad.