Joni Edelman

I was told that feminism is man hate. That abortion is murder. And then I thought, "What am I doing here?"

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

Welcome to #RavsWriters, an opportunity for you to get to know some of the outstanding human beings who fervently type to make Ravishly the aw

Suffering is America’s favorite thing to do. We starve ourselves to lose weight, and we’re a success story. We don’t sleep, and we’re just getting SO MUCH DONE. We do a thousand things a day and involve our kids in a thousand activities, because somehow, in some perverted way, that makes us successful.

How do I raise a boy to love and respect all women regardless of size in a world where he is bombarded with images of what is attractive?

My mother didn't teach me how to be a mother. But my babies did.

In today's HELLO, OBVIOUSLY news: National Coffee Day.

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.

The Interent is ugly sometimes. And raising kids using it doesn't always make it easier.

When I was little, any time I got an insect bite or stubbed my toe, I had to ask my mom, “Am I going to die? If I was going to die from this, I’d already be dead — right?” I also had a 30-minute prayer that I needed to say at each meal or else everyone would be poisoned and die. And corners. I had to check all of them before I went to bed.