Z had been a pretty independent child, by virtue of what we imposed on him.
He slept in his own room since the first day he came home.
He was able to wear his own shoes from a rather young age. When we went out, he was expected to stand at the door and put on his shoes by himself. I refused to help him, nor would I allow Mr H to do so.
He was fully toilet-trained and went 100% off diapers at 2.5 years old. By the time he was 3.5 years old, he could bathe himself. I could trust him to go off to bathe with sporadic checks here and there so that he would know better than to play in the toilet. By the time he turned 4 years old, he was able to clean his own butt after a poo session. Bringing him to public toilets had also become a breeze because all we had to do was to lift up the toilet lid and he would knew how to urine without touching the toilet bowl.
He also knew how to get on and off the car, followed by being able to buckle and unbuckle and eventually opening and closing the car door. That made him an easy passenger to handle too.
As much as I was sad that he was growing up so fast, I was glad that he could hold his own fort.
On this count, I did wonder for very long if we would enforce such independence onto X and lived up to the norm that the first child usually get the toughest training.