Child's play in the Big Apple

While I was in New York looking for an apartment, I spent an afternoon at the American Museum of Natural History.

Located west of Central Park, it is one of those majestic buildings -- you know just by looking at is filled with a lifetime of treasures.

Once inside and among the shadows of dinosaurs and meteorites, I was almost as fascinated with the children visiting the museum.

In a virtual imaginary playground, I was struck by how uninhibited kids are. They never hesitate to sing their favorite song, in public and at the top of their lungs. Or ask a question in front of others about anything and everything. And give their dad a big kiss and yell out an even bigger "I love you."

While I was watching this real-life exhibit of evolution, I turned to the person I was with and asked: "At what point in life do we become self-conscious?"

Weeks later, I spent the afternoon at the MoMA (Museum of Modern Art). While studying (and I use that term VERY loosely) a painting by Pablo Picasso of what I saw as two vastly different women looking at one another, I overheard a young girl say, "How come that woman sees herself as so ugly in the mirror?" Without an art history background, or more importantly, any preconceived notions, a child saw the painting for exactly what it meant.

Following these two interactions with kids in a matter of weeks, I couldn't help but wonder on my walk home, how do adults manage to always complicate things in life? Aren't we supposed to be smarter and more self-aware than grade-schoolers?

I'm not quite sure I can pinpoint an exact moment while growing up when suddenly it mattered how I looked, if I failed, or what others thought of me. I also have no idea when I began obsessing over the little things. It happens to everyone, but why and when?

When you're a kid, things are simple. If you want a toy, you ask for the object. If you love or miss someone, you tell the person. Then something clicks, and we begin to put up a wall. Instead of just asking for what we want, or saying how we feel, we go over each and every outcome of our actions.

I think it is human nature to try and protect ourselves -- a sort of emotional fight or flight. If we manage to somehow keep people, even opportunities, at a safe enough distance, we never have to deal with the extreme emotional ups and downs.

The only answer I can come up with is that kids face fear differently than adults. As a kid you're insatiably inquisitive and haven't yet learned the consequences of curiosity or honesty gone bad. So instead of over thinking, a kid just says or does what feels right at the time.

As an adult, the wounds are far too fresh in our minds. We know how it feels to not get that promotion, or to have someone we care about walk away. So with each disappointment we take another step back from the hot stove. I mean, if you're never close enough to touch the flame, you never get burned.

If you really think about fear, it is one our most hindering emotions. Yes, it can save us from danger, but often it keeps us from experiencing life at its fullest. So often we get wrapped up in a security blanket of creature comforts that we become too afraid to change, try new things, or test the limits of ourselves. We say "I can't" before we've even tried.

Imagine if we lived life a little more like children. If adults were less afraid for the consequences of showing true emotions -- good or bad. If we actually tried something new just because we are inquisitive as to how it works or may turn out. Using our imagination to think about all the possibilities instead of the drawbacks.

I realize with what we've learned through the years, our day-to-day responsibilities, and the higher expectations of others, grown ups will never completely revert to childhood.

I'm pretty sure most of us wouldn't want to go all the way back.

I just can't help but think that embracing our inner kid every once in a while might make us all a bit more brave and a lot more fun. It may help us be less afraid to open those doors we always assumed were closed for a reason. And maybe, just maybe we'd see things more clearly.