Joni Edelman

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.

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.

At certain points in the month I definitely feel worse about my body. I'm much less confident and more prone to eating the wrong things, and not doing physical exercise.

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

Nutritionists have weighed in on what to order at McDonald's. Here's what I think you should get instead.

Can we just take a pause to consider all of the total fucking bullshit to which we subject ourselves?

Having kids doesn't have to mean the death of your sex life.

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

As a former Mormon, the Church's revelation that they're going to start “loving and accepting” the LGBT community makes me laugh. Hard.

A weekly trip to Walmart would end in tears — first theirs, then mine. Them pining in the toy aisle. Me saying no. Over and over. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to buy my kids whatever they wanted, it was that I couldn’t.