It's Genetic. Apparently.

"Yummy, Mommy. Drink. Mmmm." Tyler was licking his lips. His cheeks were wet.

"Oh, did you get a drink, buddy?"

"Yes. Water. Yummy."

Only then did it occur to me that there was nothing on the second floor of the mountain condo from which he might get a drink. And he was gated in while I packed to bring us home. Houdini had found somewhere to quench his thirst, and I was afraid to ask.

"Where did you find your drink?"

"Molly's water. Yummy."

Oh, dear. "Please show me, Tyler."

And without reservation, he walked into the bathroom, knelt on his hands and knees, and lapped water from Molly's dog dish on the floor.

Oh, gross. Ew. Seriously. The things I have to teach him not to do. Astounding to me.

I texted my mom, in a frenzy of disgust.

Her response?

"I'm sorry to tell you, but it's genetic. When you were two, you ate dog food out of a dog's bowl at a Christmas party. The hostess brought you to me, apologizing and unsure of how much you'd eaten. But you helped yourself."

From what I hear, it was the social event of the season - a packed house of elite guests. And there was Polly's daughter, dressed in holiday satin and frills, munching from the dog's bowl. I'm sure she was thrilled.

So, in retrospect, a quiet lick-lick from Molly's dish isn't quite so mortifying. (Still, we're going to try to nip that new habit.)

And hey, I lived to tell about it. Or rather, to be told about it.

(I wish Tyler had taken after his dad on this one...)