Kelly Eng – writer

A Christmas story I wrote for The Guardian. Ho ho ho.

*

Recently my partner was invited to reprise his performance as Santa Claus at our kids’ childcare Christmas party.

Playing the big guy is both a privilege and a challenge. Up there with King Lear and Willy Loman, it’s a role that requires unique skills — as does my own default role as Mrs Claus/Santa’s CPO (Close Protection Officer).

Forty minutes before show time, and my partner’s 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 unnatural.

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 as 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 carpark. I survey the vicinity for paparazzi – the coast is clear.

First, we hit the 3-year-old kinder room. “Ho, ho, ho!” he booms, word perfect and baritonal. The little ones, who’ve been anticipating Santa’s arrival all day, are suddenly stunned.

Unnerved by the inactivity, we hover in the doorway and Santa says a meek “It’s me! I’m here!”

Somehow this re-animates the kids, who swarm around him with rapid-fire questions and hand-written letters.

Our own two kids (aged 4 and 7) look on unimpressed and resentful — their dad is suddenly a rock star.

I reassure them that Dad is making kids happy. And he’s well and truly throwing himself into the part: he’s jovial, doing jazz hands and ho hoing in all the right places.

In fact, Santa’s doing so well that I deem it safe to leave my post for a moment, a rookie error that alerts my 4-year-old.

“But Kevin is mean,” she says, pointing to an angelic-looking boy as we walk away. “He hits people.”

Now CPO-less, my partner crouches down to speak to the children. The kids, sensing weakness, launch a frenzied attack. They rip off his hat, pull up his t-shirt and yank at his facial hair, dislodging his multifocals. Triumphantly seizing them, they pelt him with wooden blocks.

“AGHHH!!” 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!” they cry.

That’s another hazard of the job. Aside from the overly exuberant crowd, the red velvet jacket and Ned Kelly beard are incompatible with the Australian summer.

Having helped Santa back 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. Regarding him with suspicion, curiosity and delight, they whisper their longed-for gift in his ear and a little 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 carpark. But it’s invisible.”

As the catering arrives – triangle sandwiches, carrot batons and chicken sausages – the crowd lose all interest in Santa. Though, kindly children return to present him with cups of vivid green cordial and a shortbread.

He moves his moustache to one side for a sip.

The sun beats down on the chicken sandwiches and the crowd is flagging. Plus, 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 of playing Santa for such funny sweet children.

He turns around to ask our kids for their take.

“Was I a good Santa?” he asks. “No.” they reply in unison.