Page 24 of It's Always Sonny

“Hi, Mom.”

“Are you getting sick? You sound awful,” she says, and I can almost imagine her wiping the other side of the phone with disinfectant. “You need to stop staying up so late working on those silly little commercials.”

My eyes close in exhaustion.

“I’m not sick, Mom. I woke up early to exercise.”

“Hmm.” It’s all she can say, because it’s a noble use of my time.

Emboldened, I add, “And we don’t just make commercials, remember? We rebrand businesses. We help them identify and target the right customers, update their presence to stay relevant and on top of trends, and so much more. Commercials are only a tiny piece of the puzzle.”

“You’ve always been such a bright girl,” she says, and I hold my breath. My mother’s like a jellyfish. She’ll say something that seems soft, and then when you put your guard down, she’ll sting you with her tentacles. “It’s too bad you wasted it on commercials when you could have done something useful, like medicine.”

There it is.

“I have vasovagal syncope. I blacked out dissecting a frog in high school. Remember? I’m pretty sure fainting disorders disqualify you from surgery.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says. “Plenty of doctors have overcome worse. You’ve always been a quitter.”

My teeth are going to crack. I don’t even know where to start. Does she really think a little more grit would help me overcome a medical condition? And to call me a quitter?

My parents had a profound influence on every second of my life, but it wasn’t their physical presence so much as the looming threat of their disapproval. My mom shifted me to the periphery while she practiced violin or sat on the board for a charity or oversaw changes in décor while I sat alone in my room doing homework. The driver took me to gymnastics because she couldn’t be bothered. At least we had family dinners … when there wasn’t a charity or hospital event that preempted it. Or a debate or gymnastics tournament.

All right, we had family dinner together twice a week, and every time, my mother gave me the third degree in front of my father, as if she truly expected him to look away from his paper or medical journal to hear about an A or a difficult dismount.

Spoiler alert: he didn’t.

One lonely memory becomes a thousand lonely memories. My parents were always doing “more important things” when I wanted or needed them. When I was little, I had such a loud voice. I demanded attention.

Some parents believe in time-outs and sending kids to their rooms. Some believe in ignoring behaviors they don’t like. I’m sure there are other parenting techniques out there, but I’m not familiar with them.

My parents punished me for behaviors they didn’t like and ignored me until I didn’t do them anymore.

I spent a lot of time in my room.

I could have gone the Lorelai Gilmore route and climbed out of the second-story bedroom of my ridiculously overwrought home, but I went the accomplishment route instead. If the only way to get their affection and attention was through excelling, then I would become the best at everything.

And then maybe they’d love me.

My mother is still going. “Why couldn’t you have practiced the violin more? You had such promise.”

When she isn’t reminding me of how dramatic and demanding I was as a child, she loves telling me how promising I was. The implication is clear: I’m a living, breathing waste of potential.

“I was always doing gymnastics or studying. And I was still first chair in flute—”

“Flute.” She says it like it’s a different f-word.

I hate how stupid and small I feel talking to her. Rationally, I know I’m smart and accomplished. Objectively, I can see that I am exceptionally good at the things I work hard to master.

But it’s not good enough.

Perfection wasn’t the goal in my family, it was the baseline. The minimum expectation to be shown love.

And I’m a lot of things, but I’m not perfect. No matter how hard I try.

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Mom,” I say, and I wish it were with fire in my gut instead of shame.

“I don’t know about that.” She sounds uncomfortable. “Here, your father wants to say hello.”

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