Mrs. Claus saves the day, spends Christmas happily at home with her cat

Photo of the author, by Tim Darwish

“I just felt a chill,” Santa told me.

I received his health report calmly, as we stood together in a busy Manhattan department store.

As a single New Yorker who plays Mrs. Claus, I had forced myself into a state of extreme joy all season. It was Dec. 21, near the end of my last shift, when the store phases out characters. For more than a month, runny-nosed children cried on me. Adults coughed on me — although not as much as they did on Mr. Claus. Through it all, I stayed healthy and — content.

I love all sorts of families. I couldn’t wait to see my young niece and nephews the day after Christmas. At 51, I never had babies of my own. Sometimes, I felt sad, but then again, I never experienced the stress of raising kids with a husband who wasn’t quite right for me. For that, I felt tremendous relief.

Now, my brain prepared for a long winter’s nap in my glorious one-bedroom apartment. Peers planned elaborate dinners drenched in obligation.

Meanwhile, visions of sweatpants danced in my head.

If a virus ran loose among the cast, and how could it not, we were so run down that we might as well sprinkle H5N1 in our trail mix. In another hour, I would return to the dressing room and pack up my costume. If I got sick, I relished couch time with my cat.

Dressed in a striped skirt, red jacket, and green pillbox hat, I stood the closest to the Big Guy, sometimes patting his shoulder. This gesture was as much acting as it was authentic. I like this Mr. Claus. Patient and professional, he had become a trusted co-worker these last four years. So had the six elves surrounding us on the raspberry-colored carpet.

As a pantheon, we swayed together in time with the DJ's music. I wanted these fabulous folks in my life forever, or at least throughout the year, over coffee or drinks.

Immediately across from us, in the Jo Malone station, a glamorous mom smiled at our antics. Tossing glossy hair over her shoulder, she used her free hand to take photos of us for her Instagram feed. She was glorious, like St. Mary herself.

Then — she whipped out her right breast to feed her newborn — under the brightest lights in the middle of the store.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus in the manger.

Cueing the apocalypse, toddler twins jumped out of their double stroller. They began decking each other near the last-minute stocking stuffers. Their screams pierced all semblance of goodwill.

I’ve never tried acid — and you know where this is going — but I started to giggle. Uncontrollably. For five minutes. Then I wept, which I hid with my resting ecstatic face.

“I can’t even feel what I’m feeling,” one elf said. In the background, the Jackson Five promised that “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

After 20 more minutes, the prize-fighting toddlers left the store, probably without their parents, through an Uber they ordered themselves.

But the gorgeous mother continued to nurse while her older child ran about unattended. I was amazed. A lactating woman can do whatever she wants, but the nipple in her perfect breast could have punctured my eye.

Elves started in with milk jokes, delivered in a Mickey Mouse falsetto.

“I’ve had too much eggnog.”

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Milk makes me sleepy.”

“I’m disassociating.”

I said, “I like my life choices.”

Santa and the elves, a few of whom were Broadway performers, nodded vigorously. A few of us were married, but none of us had kids of our own.

When we made our merry way to the breakroom, Mr. C informed the cast he wasn’t feeling well. To isolate, he stepped into the stockroom, just outside, while we revised choreography in our snow show, to begin in 30 minutes.

“Santa,” the producer said. “I want you to do the snow show down the escalator as usual. Then we’ll escort you back to the breakroom, so no one grabs you for photos. You need to go home. We have two more days of shows before Christmas and can’t afford to get everyone sick, if we aren’t already. We don’t need to do story time tonight.”

And then, she looked at me.

For my entire nine seasons as Mrs. Claus, I complained that the charactor got so little credit or exposure. In fact, this department store was one of a few in Manhattan that even had a Mrs. Claus. Isn’t that nuts, since women are the Christmas caretakers?

I couldn’t wait to leave at 6PM. But I also wanted more responsibility.

“Mrs. Claus, can you stay an extra hour and do it?”

“I can.”

So we all did the snow show down the escalator and in the perfume sections, as usual. We linked arms, as usual, and why not at this point? But this time, Santa waved goodbye and danced off with two producers dressed in black.

I, meanwhile, ran with the elves down to the toy department, all part of the act that would normally highlight Mr. C.

“Is Santa coming?” a dad asked as we jumped off the last step of the escalator.

“I don’t know,” I said smiling, keeping up with the elves, who dashed to the big chair to do their final bit of choreography. I didn’t want to call attention to Santa’s health or set up disappointment, as in: Oh, Santa had to leave and we’re stuck with his dumpy wife.

I sat in the big chair as the elves arranged cushions for the kids. So many eyes were on me, large and needy for change and love.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked the crowd of about 30 kids. Their parents stood on the outside, their iPhones held high.

“Mrs. Claus!” they shouted.

“That’s right,” I said into the mic. “I’m so excited to help Santa today and show a little girl power. I’ve just confirmed with the elves that everyone here is on the nice list. Are we ready for a story?”

I read “Twas the Night Before Christmas.” Then the kids lined up for photos with families and Mrs. Claus. No one complained. Little kids handed me their letters to Santa that I either opened with their permission or handed to the elves for safekeeping. Fewer babies cried with me than with the giant guy in red, although a few dads, and they were always dumb, handed me sobbing and traumatized infants. “Let her cry,” they’d say of their beloved offspring. “I love the pictures where they’re crying.”

Moms, meanwhile, were the ones who tucked in shirttails and finger-combed hat hair. They were the ones who arranged the family around us, like we were in a nativity.

I remember what writer Charlie Brown stated in her recent Medium piece: “What I am more wary of is what Christmas has become over the years and how much more the mental and physical load is on women because of it.”

Amen, Ms. Brown! (When can we meet?)

“I’m thinking of you,” I told a mother. “I know you do all the work.”

She did a double-take. And then seemed to decompress before my eyes.

“Thank you,” she said.

When I left that night, I had a whole new respect for Santa’s role. He doesn’t just sit there. He absorbs emotion. And pee and projections. Being “on” all the time, as a diety, is exhausting and even degrading.

I got sick a few days later and enjoyed my little tree at home, alone with my cat. I was better on Christmas, when I happily ate at the diner, with all the other misfit toys: various weirdos, singletons, and mixed-race or mixed-religious families.

Jesus would like it here, I thought. Pretty sure he was at the next table.

Ann Votaw is from Fort Wayne, Ind., and lives in New York City. Since 2017, she has portrayed Mrs. Claus and is writing a memoir about Christmas.