Joni Edelman

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.

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

I said (on TV, to Rachael Ray, so there are a few million witnesses): If you want a bikini body, put a bikini on your body.

Do you want people to for-sure panic? Tell them not to panic.

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.

When you push a small human out of your body, things tend to get a little weird.

Our relationship has been a little complicated. I've loved you a lot, and I've loathed you at least that much, but mostly you've just gone unnoticed. Except for those 5 to 7 days every four weeks when you made your presence quite evident, what with the river of life blood and the random excruciating, and from what I can tell, unnecessary, contractions.

Good news: they'll probably grow out of it. Bad news: probably not until they are 23.

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.

Compassion for myself is not a thing I do. It is not a thing I have ever done. It is not a thing I feel comfortable doing. It's time I stop for compassion.