I Always Wanted a Girl Band

I grew up with two sisters, a single mother, and an unflappable desire to perform basically from birth.

What began as impressions for my mom’s friends and living-room concerts eventually turned into religiously watching SNL by myself every Saturday night, studying the rhythm of the performances, the cadence of the delivery, the power of comedic timing.

But most of all, I loved to sing.

I sang in the car, in the shower, and pretty much all day, every day (vocal stim, anyone?).

I had convinced myself that my adult life would consist of the same female energy I was used to, and that the ultimate goal would be to have daughters who were just as passionate about performing as I was.

“One day, I’m gonna have a girl band.”

When I became pregnant with my first—a girl!—suffice it to say I was more than pumped to welcome the very first member of the ensemble.

We would get mani-pedis, go to Spice Girls reunion concerts (can that please happen?), and duet all day long.

She would be my little bandmate.

When she arrived, every expectation I had melted away. I was enveloped by the warm fuzzies of newborn bliss.

Until, that is, she decided that sleep was for dummies.

The bliss persisted.

So did the anxiety.

I was a wreck.

Shambles.

A shell of a human.

Why wouldn’t my baby sleep?

But my God, I was obsessed.

She was perfect.

She was mine.

My bandmate.

Around 18 months, I noticed she wasn’t meeting her milestones. Not many words. Mostly squeals and squawks—a natural songbird. Her once broad palate dwindled by the day. She needed intense movement to calm her body.

She wasn’t like other kids.

“I think she’s autistic,” I said to my friend, a child therapist.

“It’s too soon to tell.”

“I think she’s autistic,” I said to her pediatrician.

“We don’t like to diagnose until five.”

“I think she’s autistic,” I said to my husband.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

So we put her in daycare at the behest of well-meaning friends and family, hoping some socialization would get her “back on track.”

It was a nightmare.

They didn’t have the resources—or the desire—to support a child like her, so every day, and I mean every day, they called me to come get her.

The worst part wasn’t that we were paying a mortgage-sized tuition for promises they couldn’t keep.

The worst part was that every afternoon when I arrived, she was alone.

In a corner.

Playing by herself.

Ignored.

A burden.

A nuisance.

She was two and a half years old.

Around this time, she began to speak.

Except instead of speaking, she sang.

She sang and sang and sang.

It wasn’t always intelligible to other people, but because it was perfectly pitched, I always knew what she was singing.

And I would join in.

And when I did—

Magic.

Joy.

Connection.

Did I mention I was eight months pregnant while all of this was happening?

With the anxiety of watching my daughter be cast aside and the exhaustion of two and a half years without sleep, I waddled through those final weeks of pregnancy desperately searching for rest.

Ah, how naive I was.

Fast forward.

Another baby girl arrives.

Perfect.

The second member of my girl band.

Maybe we’d get mani-pedis.

Maybe we’d make it to that Spice Girls reunion concert.

Maybe we’d duet all day long.

This daughter met all her milestones.

She ate.

She slept.

She pointed.

She shared attention.

She seemed, by every conventional measure, easier.

Then she turned two.

And this time I knew.

“She’s autistic too.”

I didn’t wait for permission.

I didn’t wait for validation.

I didn’t wait for expertise.

I knew.

We knew.

And her speech?

It was song, too.

She sang and sang and sang.

All day long.

My house is basically a Tiny Desk Concert now, with a rotating lineup based on whatever artist currently has my daughters’ hearts.

We don’t get mani-pedis.

We haven’t made it to a Spice Girls reunion concert.

We don’t duet the way I imagined we would.

But every day, my house is filled with music.

And somehow, I got my girl band after all.

My whole life, I thought motherhood was about getting the life I imagined.

It turns out, it was about discovering one even more beautiful.

The notes changed. The music didn’t.

Love,

Lei