Joni Edelman

I am tired of taking medication. I am tired of relying on the manufactured versions of the chemicals and hormones my body could — should? — make for itself.

No, Bill Cosby isn't my dad. But he was like one to me growing up.

My cocktail is wrong. It’s a gin and tonic with only gin. It’s a martini with 10 olives. And I can’t stand the sun. Not today. Not this month.

Now that I've embarked upon the decade I once considered "old," there are a few things I'd like my 20 (and 30) year-old self to know.

My husband and I recently traveled together without our kids for the first time . . . in a while. And it was a brand-new ball game.

My decision to bed-share with my children despite potential SIDS risks has less to do with studies, and more to do with instinct.

So you fed your baby some formula instead of breast milk. His future is not shot. Really. It's not—and The Guilt serves no one.

All boobs are good boobs. And all areola too!

By baby three, well let’s just say things are a little anticlimactic, at least where furnishings are concerned. Hand me down crib. Check.

Actually, no, I'm not a gluttonous moron.