Last night, Jake ate one and a half hamburgers. And a big ol' slice of watermelon. And a pile of pasta salad. His daddy and I just watched. We've never seen him do anything like that before. We decided that we should have shipped him off to the Army a long time ago. It seems a good battle can build up a healthy appetite. Especially when one single-handedly kills a Yankee.
We spent the day leading up to Jake's spectacular dinner learning about the Civil War at Ferry Farm (George Washington's boyhood home) and Kenmore (his sister's house). And we had a blast. There were games to be played, laundry to be scrubbed, and limbs to be amputated (not really - we just saw the tools).
And of course there was a battle. Our brave boys showed no hesitation when asked to join the Army of Northern Virginia. After only a few short minutes of drill, they were marching off amid shouts of "Let's go kill some Yankees!" And even though some new recruits ran off crying with the first shots, and even though their general went down, our boys fought valiantly to the end.
I don't know what makes me prouder. My sons' brave service or the dinner they ate that night.
Wait. Silly question.
Definitely the dinner.