There are other things, of course. Peeling carrots, checking whether eggs have gone off, and boiling rice. When I started primary school, my mum bought my sister and me a magnetic world map, complete with adhesive country names and capital cities. At one point, I could name all of the major ones and point them out flawlessly. My sister only ever really managed to cotton on to the fact that Tokyo was the capital of Japan, but then again, she was only three.
My mother buys me a netball hoop and shows me how to shoot, a tennis racket, and takes me down to the local courts to knock the ball around. We spend a painstaking hour together as she lines up the notches on our communal home ruler atop a blank piece of paper, until I understand spacing and measuring and how to draw out a grid. She teaches me Maths and English right up to the moment my textbooks become too niche and subject knowledge starts to tip in my favour. She reads me Anne of Green Gables, and skims ahead to when Matthew dies so she can warn me. I cry regardless.
She has taught me more things than she remembers; in all likelihood, more things than I remember.
As an adult, one night, I pointed out Orion's belt to her. Before she said anything in reply, I noticed the lack of recognition in her eyes. Maybe from age, from time, or from the simple fact that sometimes one person's pivotal moment is another's Monday morning. She has taught me more things than she remembers; in all likelihood, more things than I remember. I can't possibly list everything, not only because sometimes the lessons slip through my fingers like sand, but because I cannot see her ever stopping teaching me. I certainly will never stop wanting to learn.