Last night I scraped the dried ink from the plate and slid the shavings into a manila envelope. After cleaning the plate, I centered a new sheet of paper on the frame, hinged it down with tape along one edge and pulled back the paper. This morning, Clyde was done sleeping at a quarter to six. After soothing him and changing his diaper, we keep ourselves busy with cooing, singing, and playing quietly while we wait for Mama and Iris to wake up. Getting the timing right to ink the plate is tricky, so I need to check in with Mama, and I wait to do so until she has a cup of coffee in her hand. If I try to place Clyde on the hard plexiglass surface when he is hungry, tired, or needs his diaper changed, he will protest. There are small windows between nursing, eating, pooping, playing and napping that I must use efficiently. There are constant unknowns that can throw the plan off-track.

Through trial and error, I have learned that the ideal amount of time to leave between inking the plate and making the print is approximately two hours. Although there are other variables. The first is the ink. Each day, I try to measure out roughly the same amount of ink, by eyeballing a scoop onto the pallet knife. Then I roll it out on the plate to get an even tack, and wait. If we make the print too soon, the ink may be too wet and smudgy, and the subtle differences in his pressure and movement are easily lost. But wait too long, and the ink is too dry to register a clear print. Changes in temperature and humidity make a difference, too. It’s hot today, the AC runs intermittently and air circulation in the room speeds drying time. At the same time, South Florida’s humid climate slows drying time. I am trying to strike a balance between the readiness of the plate with the readiness of my son to perform his task. I check the tack often, dabbing it with a fingertip.

Again, I check in with Mama. Today, there is a change in the schedule and she asks hurriedly, “Can you do it right now?” I shuffle into the studio and tape the paper down onto the frame so that it hovers a quarter inch above the inked surface. I pick up Clyde, and begin baby voicing about how much fun it’s going to be to do his drawing with Daddy. This is our special father-son time. I set him down carefully in the center of the paper, prone. He pushes both hands against the surface, scraping paper pulp with his fingernails as he reflexively grips at it, lifting his head to look around. Head lifting is a new and exciting skill, and I praise him. I get down to his level to talk with him. Yesterday he stayed on the paper for 9 minutes.

Not today. He looks straight at me and is making a face that says I’m getting ready to cry. So I try to head him off by dancing like a monkey—a hollering and gesticulating performance that I hope will distract or entertain him. It works; he is momentarily transfixed by my antics. But there is a stronger force moving him now, and he is vetoing suddenly and at high volume. My heart rate jumps, and now both of us are in stress. I pick him up carefully and cuddle him tightly against my neck. I carry him out of the studio, feeling his heat, and feeling a vague guilt. At this moment, neither of us knows why we’re doing this. I pull his cheek to mine, stroke his back and murmur into his ear, “It’s ok Clydey…I’m sorry Buddy…I’m sorry…it’s ok…” But his protest drowns me out.

December 2012