Generally, I’m not on the same wavelength with Sigmund Freud. But I have recently been in the midst of a Freudian crisis all thanks to what m’boy Siggy called “the defense mechanism of regression.”

According to the little box that comes up after a Google search, regression is a “temporary or long-term reversion to an earlier stage of development rather than handling unacceptable impulses in a more [adaptive] way.”

It’s feeling the need to hit something in times of stress; it’s wetting the bed after a new sibling is born; it’s wearing a Dora the Explorer backpack as a high school senior.

Does this mean I’ve been breaking down into temper tantrums in the middle of English class? Only on the inside.

What has seemed to happen to me is a literary regression. Basically I’ve been reading children’s books.

The thing is, I don’t think it’s the worst thing in the world. People, at least most of those that I meet, seem to think children’s books are for children.

I don’t know what on Earth gave them that idea, but I’m here to set the record straight.

They’re wild and creative and fantastical and honest and wonderful and utterly ridiculous and I love them.

If you tell an adult that a man walked out of his house, spread his arms and flew away, they’ll ask how he did it rather than where’s he going, which is undoubtedly the more important question.

As you see, adults are terribly boring compared to children. If you place a confusing, fictional situation in front of an adult, they will immediately start to question things.

How did she get from there to there? Why did he do that, when he could have done this? Surely, that isn’t possible?

Children, on the other hand, have imaginations with no limits, as do the books they read. Books written for children aren’t afraid to have whimsy.

As much as I love classic literature, something like Dostoyevsky is profoundly lacking in whimsy.

It takes a special kind of book written by a special kind of person to convey whimsy the way some children’s books do.

I mean, it’s hard to get any kind of emotion across in writing, but I think whimsy might be the hardest one of all. I have trouble even defining it.

I guess it’s a kind of idiosyncratic happiness. It’s that feeling of exhilaration you get when you’re riding down a hill on your bike. Like that, but, like, warmer. With a pinch of nostalgia.

Anyone who can capture that kind of elusive quality deserves just as much praise as the Faulkners and Chekhovs and Melvilles of the world.

Plus children’s books, like children, are just more honest.

Anyone who works with kids knows that they’re not afraid to tell you when you’re hair looks like crap or when they disagree with something you say.

Books written for children seem to have the same “think before you speak” philosophy which is honestly kind of refreshing.

Adult books tackle all sorts of tough subjects through metaphors and implications, whereas, kid’s books aren’t afraid to tackle the subjects head-on.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good metaphor, but there’s something satisfying about just hearing what’s going on.

In “Matilda,” one of my favorite children’s books, they don’t use any grandiose symbols don’t have the tree as the symbol of life or as a representation of the inevitability of death.

They just tell you what’s happening: parents are obnoxious, children are spoiled, Matilda’s a genius and she’s gonna show them all.

But it doesn’t ruin the story. It makes it feel honest, conversational, like a story being told to you.

So yeah, maybe it is a regression, but I don’t see the harm in trying to return to your roots.

I’m not sure what I’m doing with my life yet, but as of now English Major seems like a very real possibility.

So why not go back to what got me interested in storytelling in the first place?