Joni Edelman

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

As the mother of three teens, I'm here to tell you: You have nothing to freak out about.

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.

No, Bill Cosby isn't my dad. But he was like one to me growing up.

I did The Today Show, and after that spent 45 minutes talking to Inside Edition. If you're confused, imagine how I felt.

Good god, where will I ever find someone who will love me in such a pitiful condition?

Actually, no, I'm not a gluttonous moron.

It doesn’t get any more difficult to insult ourselves, regardless of how old we are. It would be ideal if it got easier to respect ourselves, but it generally doesn’t do that either. Every year you age, and every year the aging you looks at the you of the years before and thinks, I can’t believe I thought I was fat/ugly/etc.

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.

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.