Weird Syrops

[porphyry]

Among the many crackpot theories I hold, one is that a child is not really, as some philosophically dream (though no modern neuroscientist ever would argue, I guess), a tabula rasa at birth—“A new little life!” the greeting cards exclaim, as if there could be such a thing. I rather look at it as a child being a continuation of others’ lives instead; our children inherit, for good or ill, the best and worst of us.

A case in point: given Andrew’s early—dare I say “gift” for language—he has assimilated, correctly more often than not, the language and expressions of his parents which quite surprises both of us. As the child observed me brushing out my hair and applying a detangling cream to it, he turned to his father. “There’s no end,” my four-year-old son solemnly told Malkhos, “To Mama’s weird syrups.”

Cf. Keats’s Lamia:

Pale grew her immortality, for woe
Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 105
I took compassion on her, bade her steep
Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep
Her loveliness invisible, yet free
To wander as she loves, in liberty.

I guess that’s the better part of us.