Recently my partner was invited to reprise his performance as Santa Claus at our kids’ childcare Christmas party.
Playing the big guy is a privilege and a challenge. Up there with King Lear and Willy Loman, the role requires unique skills, as does my own default position as Mrs Claus/Santa’s CPPO (Claus Personal Protection Officer).
Forty minutes before showtime, my partner is zipping up the red velvet jacket and fastening the black plastic belt. But it’s the shaggy white beard that completes the transformation, even though the tight elastic fasteners make his earlobes look odd.
My children and I gasp. Santa Claus is back in town.
On the drive to the childcare centre, other motorists clock who’s in the passenger seat. As their eyes widen and their mouths form an astonished “Oh”, Santa lowers the window and gives them a queenly wave.
Like all celebrity entourages, we enter the venue via an underground car park. I survey the vicinity for paparazzi – the coast is clear.
First, we hit the three-year-old kinder room. “Ho, ho, ho!” he booms, word-perfect and baritonal. The little ones, who have been anticipating Santa’s arrival all day, are suddenly stunned.
Unnerved by the inactivity, we hover in the doorway. Santa says meekly: “It’s me! I’m here!”
This reanimates the kids, who swarm around him brandishing handwritten letters and shouting rapid-fire questions.
Our own two kids (aged four and seven) look on unimpressed and resentful. Their dad is suddenly a rock star.
I reassure them Dad is making kids happy. And he’s well and truly throwing himself into the part: he’s doing jazz hands and ho-ho-ing at all the right moments.
In fact, Santa’s doing so well I deem it safe to leave my post for a moment, a rookie error that alarms my four-year-old.
“But Kevin is mean,” she says, pointing to an angelic-looking boy as we walk away. “He hits people.”
Now CPPO-less, my partner crouches down to speak to the children. The kids, sensing weakness, launch an attack. They rip off his hat, pull up his T-shirt and yank at his facial hair, dislodging his multifocals. They pelt him with wooden blocks.
He screams, as cheerily as possible, as the wooden missiles bounce off his midsection.
The children note that Santa, now blind, beardless and hatless, has a very sweaty head. “Why is Santa’s hair wet? Santa’s sweating!”
That’s another hazard of the job. Aside from the overly exuberant crowd, the red velvet jacket and synthetic beard are incompatible with the Australian summer.
After helping Santa to his feet, the centre director moves the party outside for the present-giving.
Children surround him as he perches on the edge of the sandpit. They regard him with suspicion, curiosity and delight. They whisper their longed-for gifts in his ear.
One girl tenderly pats his white furry cuffs; one boy asks the awkward questions. “How old are you, Santa?”
“542.”
“Where is your sleigh?”
I interject. “Errr, it’s in the basement car park. But it’s invisible.”
As the catering arrives – triangle sandwiches, carrot batons and chicken sausages – the crowd lose all interest in Santa. But some kindly children return to present him with cups of vivid green cordial and shortbread. He moves his moustache to one side for a sip.
The sun beats down on the chicken sandwiches. The crowd is flagging and the psoriasis on Santa’s elbow is flaring up. It’s time to leave. Santa jangles a tambourine and shouts his goodbyes.
On the drive home, we hail his Oscar-worthy performance and reflect on the joy and honour of playing Santa.
He turns around to ask our kids for their take. “Was I a good Santa?” he asks.
They reply in unison: “No.”
