A recent smear test revealed my worth...apparently

I remember telling myself that once I become a mum, the little things wouldn’t faze me.

In my headier younger days, I recall thinking that once I sacrificed myself to childbirth in all its messy, gooey glory, I’d be able for anything.

Being told I’d 'check my dignity at the door’ before my first birth must have instilled a false sense of confidence that I’d emerge someone who would be able to take anything in her stride.

Well, after enduring four natural labours and after having four mewling newborns laid across my naked chest, it turns out I’m still not superwoman.

But it’s all about circumstance, I now realise.

While a team of nurses tended to my nether regions, I managed to coo at my newborn, practically oblivious to the carry-on taking place beneath waist height.

Slick with sweat each time, I paid scant attention to anyone but my four children and happily allowed a doctor to poke and prod while I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to my newest arrival.

So, to realise I still feared a particular medical procedure after my fourth, most difficult labour, disappointed me somewhat.

I struggle to even name the examination because the word makes me squeamish, but just so we’re both on the same page, I’ll do it this once - smear test.

It’s necessary, it's incredibly important and it can save your life, but that doesn't mean I enjoy it.

Like lots of things that are good for you, it's not always the most pleasurable experience - like cleaning the oven, for example.

The funny thing is that none of my smear tests have been anything but simple and straightforward, and yet I still harbour this irrational fear.

I suppose it comes down to the somewhat muted nature of it.

At least when you go into labour, you're given free reign to say how you feel and writhe like your life depends on it.

You're in a hospital gown to allow for freedom of movement and you know at the end of the experience, you'll be a mum.

This is a little different because you can't curse at the GP nor can you be anything but calm and dignified.

You're fully dressed from the waist up and your hair is done, but your legs are exposed revealing the fact you haven't shaved in a week and your socks are mismatched and bobbly.

And up until last week, I considered those factors the worst aspect of the whole thing.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Psyching myself up for the big event which took place at 11.10am last Wednesday morning, I popped into the sugery's bathroom to freshen up before being called into the doctor's office and hopping aboard the examination table.

The procedure was going as normal until I heard the tiniest of stifled noises from my GP.

Curious, I lifted my head and gawped down at her.

Having been my doctor for over 15 years, there's very little myself and this wondrous woman haven't discussed, so she probably knew it would be foolhardy to conceal the source of her stifled mirth if she ever wanted me to return for another test.

Lifting a small tweezers from between my legs, she revealed the price sticker from the wet wipes I had used to tend to myself.

"Don't worry, I've seen much worse than this," she guffawed.

I place my worth at less than a fiver apparently.

Good to know!