Instead, I was being rewarded with a standing ovation – the ultimate stamp of approval.

Still high from the talk, I floated down the aisle of the Stop-and-Shop supermarket my mind not really focussed on what I was looking for.

Then my eyes caught the reflection of a smartly attired women – three piece suit; a powerful, smart, modern woman. I did a double take only to realise it was me.

Ah there was the bread, and the vegetables. It was a distant memory how I eventually got away from the lecture room, with the people trying to shake my hands and congratulate me.

Even the traffic on the way home to Nine Mile was a breeze. Life is tolerable when things go well, I mused. Any other day, I would have been cursing the traffic.

My husband had picked up the children from school and, when I finally made home, they were there.  Husband and boys plonked down in front of the TV immersed in a rerun of a rugby match, oblivious of my arrival.

My only daughter was somewhere in the house, while the breakfast dishes from the morning spilled haphazardly on the kitchen table and the clothes I’d washed till late at night were flapping in the afternoon breeze.

The euphoria faded, the energy evaporated. The plaintive meows of a hungry cat added to my frustration.

I dumped the food unceremoniously on the table and flipped the cat away off the chair and sat down to reset my bearings. 

Did I believe what I just told a roomful of strangers – that I could change my perspective like the way I changed my clothes? Did they understand me? Did I understand myself?

I felt like a pretender. I was expected to perform like a warhorse at work then come home and defend the image I projected of a perfect mother to my family.  It was exhausting.

My in-laws were waiting for a weak moment to pounce.

“Cope with it,” chastised my mother chastised when I complained, “it is your duty as a woman.”

“What do you know about being a working women?” I had retorted. “Your only job was to look after us, you did not have the added pressure of working for money eight hours in a day then come home exhausted and cook and clean for the family and still look pretty for husband.”

“So you think have it worse than me,” she retaliated, “you don’t know the challenges I went through for you.”

My recollection of growing up was of the extended family sharing the duties, and the rewards. I had imagined such a life for myself. However, it was harder than I had imagined. My family was smaller but the duties as heavy and spoils no sweeter.

My childhood was an extended family affair. There were always sisters and cousins and aunties and my mother did not do all the work she claimed. The bevy of female relatives looked after me and my siblings when mother went to the garden or market.  I ate in whoever’s house I was in.

It is true that my mother was not the nag I had turned out to be. She was not a tired and exhausted woman as I was.  Her support network was a cushion from stress.

My father was a man of even temperament.  Like the women, the men did chores together. They cut gardens together and hunted and fished together. The return from combined energy was enough to be shared among the extended family. 

The men lived together at the men’s house and did not interfere in the women’s business; the discipline of children was a village affair.

At no time did my father raise his voice and hands against my mother. Each found satisfaction and contentment in their role.

I sometimes regret going to school and getting liberated from the village. But my parents, especially my mother, pushed me to get an education because a well-paid job was seen as an escape from the drudgery of village life.

I never understood the drudgery my mother was pushing me away from.

When I got my first job, I invited my parents to spend time with me in town.

They marvelled at the easy life. No smoky fires, no carting big containers of water from the river, no toiling for food each day, plenty of red meat any time, chilled water, antibiotics....

What fascinated my parents most was the flush toilet. In the village, afraid of the dark and of spirits lurking, my parents cut back on tea and water at night. With a lavatory in the house came indulgence in a cup of tea any time.

My dad was fascinated with lights.  As soon as it got dark, he would turn them on whether people were in a room or not. Every light would be turned on. And, instead of going to sleep, he would lie down and listen to the radio late into the night.

They were happy for me, happy for modern convenience.  But peace and happiness went out the window when the children were born.

Without help from female relatives, it was upon me to care for the family single-handedly. My husband was not much help because he did not know how to look after children, cook and clean.  My nagging did not make him any better.

He provided for the family, but his other duties were taken over by the technology of modern convenience. Not so for me. I still had to cook, clean, nurse, the countless duties of women, duties I had no-one to share with. I was stretched but not my hours. It was exhausting.  

Joining Toast Masters was an idea for me to get out of the house and do something for myself. It had been my turn to give a prepared speech so I decided to talk about life. In my talk I recounted basically what I am writing in this story.

Could I change my perspective in the face of challenges as easily as I change my three piece suit into my comfortable meri blouse and laplap?  The life of a modern traditional wife is a paradox – she has achieved freedom from tradition yet is caged by it.