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Brian has told me that, in his professional opinion, the options available to my sister, with regard to this child, are limited to exorcism. This becomes apparent to everyone at the table. While food is being passed around, little Lee sits on his hands and shakes his head side-to-side, repeating killing the buddha his mantra, "Not eating it, not eating it, not eating it," which increases in both speed and volume. There is a killing the buddha major backup of side dishes, while my husband, in a final bargaining plea, eats a huge mouthful of squash, his least favorite killing the buddha vegetable. "Honey, you ate a verb." I can't resist pointing out. My mother pinches my under-arm, her mouth clenched. "What is wrong with you? He's not gonna eat that now." Almost everyone lingers in the dining room at the end of the meal. We are a tired bunch, worn out; we are battle scarred, and we are considering seconds. The children have dispersed, and the adults quietly catch up on the details of each other's lives.
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