Joni Edelman

I didn't get a lot of mothering as a child, but when I did, it was from her. She taught me how to sew, how to crochet. She taught me how to stand up for myself, to be tough. She taught me how to make fried chicken and fried okra, which I will never make, because it's fucking gross.

And what’s better than eggs? Eggs direct from the cloaca of your own chicken.

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?

As long as I can remember having paid attention to the media, I can remember a woman's weight—or body in general—being a news story.

Misogyny is pervasive. And my three boys are living it all.

...I’m going to help you! By “help” I mean “tell you all the things that didn’t work.”

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

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

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

91% of women report dissatisfaction with their body. Ninety-one. I know you know math—that’s 9/10 of women.