Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?

There are lots of things in life I’m afraid of. The big things – losing my children, losing my family, losing my health…they are fears that I’m sure a lot of people also experience, and are completely founded in human nature.

Then there are the more (somewhat) unfounded fears. I say that in parenthesis because I know there are actually reasons for my fears existing, although those reasons have been learnt, rather than being more innately grounded.

Wasps for example. (Or ‘buzzy things’ as I call them, because lets be honest, if a small buzzing thing is coming at me I’m not sticking around to check if it actually is a wasp or not).

I never used to be scared of wasps. When I was about 5, I was stung by a bee, which was lying around on my bedroom floor and I trod on it – so quite justified really. Clearly, I wasn’t even aware that such a thing existed, as I recall running (in a hopping, painfully haphazard fashion due to my throbbing foot) to my mother, and exclaiming through tears ‘mummy, the fly hurt me’. Even following this, I wasn’t afraid, until one day a wasp sat on my knee in a guitar lesson when I was 8, just as I put the guitar down on my knee. OUCH!

And since then, buzzy things evoke a fear that my Other Half finds a constant source of amusement. A wasp cruising close will lead to the ‘panic dance’, whereas one actually landing on me causes whimpering and gibbering which, once the moment has passed, are a cause for massive embarassment on my part. I can’t help it. I know being stung isn’t the end of the world. I know, for example, that giving birth was far more painful and I got through that ok! But they just look evil, they sound evil, and – I am convinced – they are evil.

I was doing quite well at conquering this fear, and at the Wee Man’s first birthday picnic I even managed to sit through the entire thing without jumping up, screaming or even flinching (much) as the wasps joined in the party. Then, I got pregnant again, the protective instincts kicked in on overdrive, and back came the gibbering, sweaty wreck of a grown woman. Just yesterday, I was held hostage in my own hallway by a buzzy thing that presented itself in the living room. Things might have been easier if I’d have been able to avail myself of the use of the fly spray that the Other Half had insisted we get some months ago, but I just cant bring myself to kill other living things, even if they are as previously discussed, inherently evil. So instead a confused Bubby D and myself spent a morning pacing the corridor, until, in a fit of bravery, I managed to dash in and open a window wide enough to let it escape.

Dentists are another thing quite high on my fear scale. I’m fine until I sit in the chair, and then suddenly – there I am, a quivering, gibbering wreck. I’ve even been known to jump out of the chair and run away at the sight of an unexpected needle coming the way of my mouth. Needles anywhere else, and I’m not particularly bothered. (although, I suspect perhaps in my eyeballs, for example, or in fact anywhere around the face might provoke the same reaction – lucky I’m not bothered about Botox then…) But put a needle in the hand of a dentist and I’m outta there!

Once again, as a child, I was not afraid of the dentist. Gaily my sister and I would skip into the consulting room, and be presented with our sticker for bravery, and – somewhat strangely – a lollipop (really? I definitely remember this but it seems a very undentisty thing to do…). However, at some point along the line, quite possibly when my mother insisted on my getting veneers for fluorosis at the hands of a particularly ungentle and unsympathetic dentist, I developed quite a phobia.

Realising that I ought to make use of my maternity exemption (and also because I haven’t been for quite some time), I braved the local dentists’ surgery this week. Noticing that I had children, the receptionist asked how old they were, and suggested that I bring the Wee Man along to my appointment to show him that there is ‘nothing to be nervous about’.

Hmm…I’m not sure the sight of his mummy quivering and whimpering in the chair will entirely pass on that message to him. In fact, given that I’m phobic about nasty things to do with teeth in general, I’m not even sure how I’m going to cope when we get to the wobbly and falling out teeth stage. I’m thinking perhaps the Other Half is going to be best placed to deal with these sorts of thing.

Inevitably, however, the kids are going to begin noticing that Mummy is not an infallible rock of strength. And I wonder, is this a bad thing? Should I be putting on a front of invulnerability and trying my best to shield them from my craziness? Will my fear of all things buzzy transfer to them, leading to a lifetime of picnic party pooping? Or is it better to explain that mummy is silly and irrational sometimes, but its nothing to be worried about. Additionally, not only is mummy irrational, but she confronts her fears and attends the worrisome dentist anyway, because it is good for her. (I will not be applying this logic to intentionally hanging around wasps though, definitely not).

I really don’t know, but one thing is for sure. I’m not afraid of the Big Bad Wolf. So there.