Joni Edelman

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

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.

Body politics activist. Photographer. Chronic quoter of Monty Python. Unapologetic fat chick.

Here’s something that isn’t rocket science either, Stephen Hawking: Diets don’t work.

I just listened to my four and six year-old children (one boy, one girl) have a lengthy bathtime conversation about babies, growing up, m

She says she’s worried that the cat, whose name is Jack, doesn’t know what’s going on. She tried to explain to him that she was leaving for a while.

In honor of World Bipolar Day, I present a sample stream of consciousness based on my experiences living with this disorder.

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

Is that incense I smell? A drum circle in the distance perhaps? Chanting? Herbal potions? Perhaps a cauldron? Could it be homebirth?

It's #STDAwareness week here at Ravishly. We're kicking it off with this handy chart!