This Particular Poop of Peter's

(First of all, I apologize in advance to Peter for this. I want you to know, I never would have put this out onto the Internet if it wasn't for your mom's special request. But, as faithful readers know, I've never been able to refuse Teresa.)

It looked something like soft-serve ice cream only it had more texture and was green-ish-brown, like if soft-serve ice cream came in split pea and ground chuck flavor and had smushed bits of split pea and ground chuck spread evenly throughout.

It was coming out of the bottom of my best friend's baby.

Now, I've changed my fair share of diapers. The lowest several hundred dollars of my bank account are the savings I accumulated working as a babysitter on weekend nights and summers during high school. At one time, I was even good at changing diapers. But, as a non-parent, I never got over the embarrassment of having to hold a little human's feet above his or her head while I swiped at his or her bare bottom with moist towelettes and various creams and powders.

Still, even with my experience, I've never seen anything like this particular poop of Peter's (Peter, I love you). Tiffany, Teresa and I were sitting in the breakfast room of a hotel in Sonoma last weekend when it happened. We had just finished one of those breakfasts reminiscent of mornings in the college dining hall in which you keep going back for more just because no one is adding each additional item to a bill. I managed to eat a Belgian waffle, a plate of too-dry scrambled eggs, a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, a handful of fruit loops, a tiny little cup of yogurt and a banana in the span of about 30 minutes.

Anyway, during that same time Peter, Teresa's 5-month-old, had breast milk. He hadn't pooped in two days, plugged up, I can only assume, from a serious schedule adjustment as he, his parents and his 3-year-old sister enjoyed a few days off on the opposite coast of the country.

Predictably, he pooped, just as we were finishing our multi-course breakfast.

"Phew!" Tiffany sniffed, lifting Peter away from her chest and holding him out in the universal help-I-have-a-dirty-diapered-baby way.

Teresa held out her arms, and I stood up to go. Since we were finished with our breakfast, I saw no reason to put poor Peter through a public changing on the cushion between us. I thought we were headed to the room.

"Where are you going, Rebecca?" Teresa called, easing her child down onto the seat and pulling out diapers and wet wipes in one fluid motion.

"Nowhere," I said, sitting back down.

Teresa pulled Peter's diaper away from his itty-bitty body. And that's when we saw it. Indeed, Peter had pooped. But, more importantly, he was still pooping.

"Oh my god," Tiffany said, peering over Teresa's hands to see the substance oozing out of the boy (Peter, I love you).

"What is happening?" I hiss-whispered. I turned my shoulders and slid my arm across the table to shelter Peter from view.

"I don't think your little hand is going to block this, Rebecca," Teresa said, laughing hysterically.

I looked at my hand. It did appear very small next to the enormous amount of poop piling into the old diaper.

A man paused by our table. I willed him to continue walking without looking our way. No such luck. He turned. And stared at what was taking place on the seat to my left.

"Nothing to see here," Teresa said matter-of-factly, flashing the man a smile and waving him on with the hand that was not directing the flow of Peter's poop.

I, on the other hand, glared at the man and moved my little hand further down the table in the hopes that my forearm might better shield the scene.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Peter stopped pooping. He smiled contentedly as he had throughout the whole process and Teresa folded the bulging diaper up. She handed it to me.

"Can you throw this out?" she asked.

And I did. I took that diaper like we were completing an illicit transaction and tucked it low to my hip, scurrying out of the breakfast room, into the lobby and out the front doors of the hotel, dropping the diaper into an outside trash can.

When I returned, Teresa and Tiffany were still laughing. And Peter was still smiling, as if nothing had happened. And, as far as the world was concerned, nothing did...

Until I wrote this blog.

(Peter, I love you.)