Christmas

I Am More Than Just Santa’s Wife and I’ve Had Enough of This Toxic North Pole Sexism

And why won’t Santa touch me, even when I’m more naughty than nice?

Life as Mrs. Claus isn’t as easy as you think. Photo by Michelle Teheux

Hi. Mrs. Claus here. I’d like to use my given name, but everyone has called me Mrs. Claus for so long that even I’ve forgotten what it is.

Odd, isn’t it, when my husband has several names to choose from? One day he’s Santa Claus, another he’s Saint Nicholas or Kris Kringle. I’d be happy with even one first name.

But no. My entire identity is dependent on my husband, and I finally realize how sexist that is.

I spend my days mending his red coat, baking and decorating cookies and occasionally helping the elves when they need an extra hand in the workshop.

My own interests are ignored.

We got married hundreds of years ago.

Things were different then. You didn’t get to marry for love; your marriage was arranged.

At first, I remember being pleased to learn I was to marry Santa. Other girls I knew had to marry an old prince or nobleman, but I was betrothed to a saint, and he was a snappy dresser who really stands out in a crowd. It sounded like a lucky…