We didn't have a list at the beginning, but we didn't need it. What we had to teach came almost instinctively. 

How to grasp food between two tiny fingers. 

How to hold a spoon. 

How to hold a fork. 

How to use a fork and spoon to get food from a high chair tray into the mouth. 

And so it went. Some weeks there were more lessons than others. 

How to step into a pair of pants without falling over. How to hold your arms upwards and work your chubby hands through the sleeves of a shirt. 

How to walk. 

How to walk in shoes. 

How to use the potty. 

How to use the potty alone. 

How to let others use the potty alone. 

How to let others use the potty alone and not announce that they were doing so to anyone in the general vicinity. 

Some lessons were easier than others. 

It took a while for shoelaces to cooperate with finger muscles, or maybe it was the other way around. 

A skateboard proved easier than a bike. 

What qualifies as "light" and "dark" laundry remains a hotly debated topic. 

Now the time for lessons grows shorter, the 18th birthday closer, and suddenly I have a mammoth list that weighs upon my shoulders. 

Is there time to teach them how to replace an electrical outlet, just in case? Do I need to cover how to jump a car? Will they know what to do if the toilet runs all night?

I sneak them in where I can — how to keep your pie crust edges from burning, how to tell if the family value size box of crackers is really a good value, how to regenerate scallions in a glass of water. 

Each day we cross another day off the calendar, and each day another item is added to the list. 

If only we could go back to the beginning. Could we get them all done?