I just linked to Michelle’s blog called Scribbit, and she’s having a writing contest for October. The idea is to write a post on the topic “Things That Scare Me.”

Time for true confessions. There are only three things that I can think of that really scare me: freeways, cockroaches, and dentists. All my other fears can be classified under one of those three general headings. I live in Houston so that I can pretend to confront my fears while practicing the same avoidant behavior I would anywhere else.

I’m afraid of freeways because I don’t merge well. I never have. I look back, and look in front of me, glance at the speedometer, and then freeze. “Get me safely off this ramp,” I pray, “and I promise I’ll never get on one again.” I haven’t been on a freeway since 2004, Hurricane Rita, when I had to drive during the evacuation. Since the traffic was only moving at about ten mph, I had my fear under control. I wasn’t really afraid of the hurricane. I do OK with weather. It’s merging onto freeways that terrifies me. Houston has lots of freeways. I don’t drive on them. I believe that’s a wise decision, and I’m sure that if you’re reading this piece and live in Houston, you will agree that we’re both safer with me off the on ramp.

Houston also has lots of roaches. Large flying roaches. I tell my husband, who to tell the truth isn’t too fond of the nasty little creatures either, that I’m not afraid of them, just respectful. Cockroaches and I maintain a healthy distance. Engineer Husband can kill them, pick them up, dispose of them. I woke up once in the middle of the night with something wet in my hand. You guessed it: I didn’t sleep soundly for a week. This fear of cockroaches is symbolic of the irrational fears that we all have. I know that a dead roach, or even a live one, won’t really hurt me, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t stand the little buggers.

Dentists. I’m not really afraid of dentists. A dentist at a party or a dentist visiting our church is not a fearsome thing. I’m really afraid of pain. A dentist once gave me what she called a “palatal,” a shot in the palate in the roof of my mouth. I have birthed eight babies, some without epidurals, and I have never experienced such pain. My teeth can rot out of my mouth before I will ever let a dentist give me a palatal again. This fear is emblematic of the fear of the unexpected, especially the unexpected suffering for which I’ve had no time to prepare myself. With babies, you have nine months to get ready, arrange for anesthesia if necessary, but you never know when you might get a shot in the . . . palate.

So there’s the fear that is the better part of valor. Don’t drive onto the ramp if you know you can’t merge. There is the fear that’s obviously irrational, but fairly harmless. Why pick up the roach if you have a husband who’s willing to demonstrate his manhood by doing it for you? And there’s the very real fear that something really bad will hit me in a soft spot, and I won’t be ready, won’t have the courage or the endurance needed to make it through. That last fear I know I can’t avoid forever or always pass on to someone else. No one can go to the dentist for me. The only way is to keep going and pray that I’ll have the strength if and when I need it. And protect that soft palate as best I can.