#Twinning: 'My twin pregnancy has turned me into Madame Emo'

Fresh home from last week’s ‘Babymoon’, I'm happy to say it was a holiday well spent, doing not much but topping up the vitamin D in tropical Far North Queensland. Returning to the balmy eight degrees Melbourne had turned on for us, however, was an emotional punch in the face.

I'd been waiting for her to come, actually, and there under the porch light was a mythical creature who goes by the name of 'Madame Emo’. And this hormonal b---- means business. 

You see, back when I found out I was pregnant, and Google told me a twin pregnancy would make me twice as hormonal as other pregnant women, I was quietly fearful for my partner.

How psycho would I get? Would plates be thrown? Fights be picked? Would my head swivel round on my neck like that scene from The Exorcist?

I took myself to lunch yesterday, and on the way back to the car a cattle truck drove past. Those sweet little lambs were bleating like mad, their cries calling out to me and clawing at my conscience.

Of course, ol' double-preggo over here couldn’t handle it and broke down like a sad sack on the side walk. I was openly crying in public, swearing to myself that souvlakis were now the enemy. 

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Suddenly, all I could think of was heart attacks and car crashes and vulnerable elderly people needing urgent care, and BAM!, here we go again. I sobbed on the lawn like a damn fool. 

And then there’s dogs. My God. I had to leave the room this week while my partner Dan was watching a FICTIONAL crime show where a dog became really ill.

Well, well - Madame Emo did her best work on me and I cried like a baby for a good half an hour. It still brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it. How could they? That poor dog, was she in pain? Did she know people cared about her in the end...? It's all too much. 

The day I should have cried this week, but didn’t, was when I was subjected to that hideous glucose test pregnant women have to do to determine whether they have gestational diabetes.

You’d think 12 hours of fasting, then sculling a vile sugary drink against the clock and having three needles shoved in your arm might be enough to bring a tear to your eye, but no, it's the lambs and the dogs that have got me going this week. 

Anyway, I guess I'm what the cool kids would call “totes emotional”, but at least the plates are intact and my head and neck are swivel-free... for now, anyway.