My parents were both 42 when they adopted me. And, because neither of them had any experience with children of any age, they didn't know how to treat me like my age. I was treated like a mini-adult. I was hardly ever around people younger than 40. I went to operas, plays, dinners, and meetings. I never cried as a child so my parents weren't ever reminded that I was just a kid. I don't know what to do with kids now. My parents hate little kids, and I do too, but only becuase I have no idea what to do with them. I was never really a little kid myself. I didn't play board games. I organized the pieces neatly in the box. I didn't spell out words on the fridge with magnets. I spent time trying to figure out the most efficient way to keep them in the bin. I didn't color outside the lines. I'd start over if I messed up. I have always been a perfectionist, and my parents have always expected the best from me, because they never figured out that a kid can't go up to their standards without totally messing up their brain.