Nothing to Fear

I can change a diaper faster than a peeing child. I can leap Barbie's breasts in a single bound. I can help with multiplication tables while simultaneously calculating how long to bake a chicken. I am Super Mom! Yeah… right… Super Mom would imply that I'm capable of anything, wouldn't it? That I fear nothing? Well. Have you seen my reaction to the dentist? It's highly disappointing from your basic super-hero perspective. I worry about it for days. I barely wake up on time (did I… accidentally… set that alarm for p.m. and NOT a.m.???). I change the trash bag, clean the sinks, reorganize the fridge and consider giving the dog a flea bath simply to avoid getting in the car. Strange as this is, once I'm in the dentist's chair, I'm absolutely fine. I don't panic. I don't even flinch, really. So, what's the problem?! Generally, I'd say… fear. "There is nothing to fear but fear itself." Well, Mr. Roosevelt… that's good enough for me. I often wonder about the things that scare the bejesus out of me. I have a small but select list. Let's see - mice (EEK!), snakes (*shudder*), heights (don't let anyone tell you that you "adjust" once you get up there… you don't), and my personal favorite - the dark. Yes, there you have it. I'm forty years old and still afraid of the dark. Well, not the dark so much as what I may or may not see when I turn on the light. Actually, I'm afraid of what I might suddenly see IN the dark too. Lovely, isn't it? I hate that I will still reach my hand around into a dark room to flip the light switch before I'll walk in. No wandering around in the dark for me. Nope, not even an inch. I do have a theory about my fear of the dark though. I got it from my father. No, fear is not hereditary and it's definitely not a gift. See, my father used to play this game. On any random evening, once it got dark enough, he would disappear. He'd go down the hall, into my parent's bedroom, and he would lie down on the floor. Now, he must have REALLY dug this little game because any 300+ pound man knows that getting down on that floor means eventually having to get back up! Anyway, he would lie on the floor in the dark, waiting for unsuspecting me to decide to walk to my bedroom at the very end of the hall. As I passed their door, he would let out a fierce roarrrrrrrrrr and grab for my leg, usually managing to catch me by the ankle. I'd screech my head off and he'd laugh until his eyes watered. Yep. Fun. Eventually, I developed a routine for getting to my room. It went something like this: Turn on hall light, take several deep breaths, run like hell, leap past parents' bedroom door, stick a good two-footed landing, reach around corner, turn on bedroom light, run in, slam door, hyperventilate. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised at being recruited for the track team by the time I reached high school. I'd had plenty of training! My father had another little cardiac-enhancing game too. Let's call it "Run for your freakin' life up those stairs." Just for fun. The basic premise to this game was for my father to wait until I was leaving the basement family room. He'd watch for me to get my foot up on the first step. Then he'd come barrelling over (again, with that 300+ pound frame) and chase me up the stairs, growling and roaring behind me. My heart always made it to the top of the stairs long before the rest of me could catch up. And he'd laugh until his eyes watered. Truthfully, though, that's the only way to deal with fear - laugh at it. I try to do that now. I know that most fears are irrational and I try to teach my own children not to be afraid of things that you KNOW can't hurt you. They especially like my "dead mouse lessons." I'm much less fond of them. There's the one where I pulled the mousetrap out from under the stove in the country house, trying to be brave and set it to trap the little bugger that was mocking me by doing the Macarena on top of my microwave. The days old, dead mouse dangling limply from the trap in my hand was so much more of a surprise than I ever needed. I screamed so loud that I scared the kids and promptly threw the damn trap clear across the kitchen and into the dining room, where it landed face down in the middle of the floor. We went out for hotdogs at that moment and came home about 8 hours later. Then, there's the other one. I was packing to move out of that same country house (can you guess my motivation?!) when I walked into a little-used back room. There, right in my path, was a dead mouse. I slammed the door, leaving the mouse to its... umm… death-dom… and I left. A week later (yes, I'm serious), I made my sister drive an hour back to the country house with me to pick the dead mouse up on a shovel and throw it into the back corn field, a process which took all of about 30 seconds. My sister loves me but she has still never forgiven me. All things considered, I think a little fear is a good thing. I believe it keeps you safe. It makes you step back for a moment and think about what could happen. Sometimes, it unknowingly gives you the physical training required to become a Super Mom. I took a pass on the track team but I'm the best Barbie-breast leaper I know! I bet my Dad's looking down on me, even still… laughing until his eyes water.