I'm not afraid of much. I didn't get what we call the "worry gene" in our family, and I work hard at practicing acceptance and letting go of things I can't control. Given that, there's just not much left to actually walk around being afraid of.
But there have been a couple of times where I've taken my children, on purpose, to something that feels like peril. Twice to a ropes course (SO high off the ground) camp, once getting into the boat to raft the Colorado, and twice to the oral surgeon's office to put the Princess under general to have teeth removed. In all those cases, I was able to keep it in, not let my terror show and affect the kids. But MAN, it's there and it's a struggle.
I brought her in today to have her impacted lower wisdom teeth removed. Last week we got to watch a lovely informed consent video, which goes over in minute detail every horrible thing that can go wrong. Death, facial deformity, nerve damage. And then I sign a form saying that's FINE with me, whatever happens, and then they ask twelve different ways if she has any problems with anesthesia. Well, no, not YET.
She's fine, finally eating, not in too much pain or swelling, and I'm finally able to leave her alone in the room for a little while (yeah, I admit it, I was watching her breathe). Phew.