A Very Merry Delahaye Christmas

The bedroom window was frosted over, glass becoming an opaque screen of the world outside. The trees were just green smudges against the pane, crystalized from the layer of ice. The skin of my arm was tingly with chill and I tucked it back under the sheets where warmth resonated. In the large house of old stone floors, it was sometimes difficult to heat.

Isaac said it was a particularly cold winter. I felt like it was pretty mild compared to what I lived through in Anchorage all my life—which wasn’t even that bad. I was enjoying the lighter snowfall and higher temperatures. Higher by maybe ten degrees. Maybe.

I rolled over, making sure to keep all but my head underneath the five layers of blankets. Isaac was still sound asleep. He was braver than me, his arms having ventured out from underneath the covers to be tossed over his head. His face was content, brown eyes hidden behind closed eyelids. I hated to wake him, but it was almost ten and I needed to know what he was thinking for Christmas breakfast.

It was our first Christmas together as Mister and Misses Isaac Delahaye.

I bit at my lip to suppress a grin. I fucking loved the sound of that. River Delahaye.

Overcoming my giddiness, I ventured out of my cocoon of quilts to kiss his nose lightly. “Babe?”

Isaac stirred and let out a long breath from his nose before those brown orbs showed themselves to me. “Morning,” he grumbled, smiling a little.

I kissed him lightly. “Morning. Plans for the day?”

“Breakfast, sex, take the dogs out for a walk, dinner, look at the neighbors’ Christmas lights, sex to warm up, dinner, presents, sex, sleep?”

“You forgot running around the house with nothing but a Santa hat on!” I whipped the covers off and shrieked when the cold air hit my skin. Indeed, I was wearing nothing. Not even a Santa hat.

I scurried across the room to the door, throwing it open to hurry down the hall. “Are you going to let the dogs out like that?” Isaac called behind me.

Shuffling quickly back into the room, I grabbed my robe and threw it over myself before storming out of the room. Isaac was chuckling after me. With the sound of my activity, the dogs had scampered up the stairs to meet me, tails wagging and excited yapping. Usually, they slept with us in bed, but sometimes their Mom and Dad needed some “alone time” and therefore they had the entire house to themselves during the night. Nemo and Slash were my dogs from when I lived in Alaska, and Isaac and I had recently adopted Jasper, a Spaniel-looking dog who had the energy of any hunting hound.

I let them out to romp around in the snow and take a shit, watching them with a sense of contentment that was hard to find. When I came back inside with a flourish of fur and claws clicking on the stone floor, the fire in the foyer was lit. Isaac and I—mostly I—had decorated every surface with something Christmas-y. Lights and garland hung from the eaves and wrapped around the staircase. Those had been turned on. Near the back of the house, the Christmas tree was glittering with its multi-colored lights in the living room. Our cats, Elizabeth and Victor, were probably huddled underneath it somewhere. A model Christmas village lined the top of the piano.

Isaac was in the kitchen mixing up pancake batter. He was a decent human being and had actually put clothes on (unlike me), the navy sweater I got for him last Christmas and a pair of grey sweats. His greying hair was tied back in a loose bun.

I snuck up behind him and rested a chin on his shoulder. “I told you I’d make breakfast.”

He turned his head to nudge mine lightly. “I know,” he said. “But I’m hungry. And there’s still bacon to fry.”

I hip-bumped him before saying, “As you wish Mister Delahaye.”

“Thank you, Misses Delahaye.” Isaac’s white teeth flashed.

“Fuck, we’ve turned into that couple, haven’t we?” If my younger self had seen the display in the kitchen, she would have vomited all over her cynicism and naïve bitterness.

Isaac’s eyebrows arched up. “Is that a problem?”

I looked at him from the corner of my eye. “No,” I said with a smirk before starting on the pound of bacon without another word. I dropped a couple pieces to the dogs.

We followed a majority of Isaac’s schedule with maybe a little less “sex”s. We spent a good portion of the afternoon taking Christmas cookies to the neighbors, who were mostly middle-aged to the elderly. Their faces lit up and they thought we were the cutest thing they ever did see. A couple in their thirties toting around their three fury children through the snow. I’ll admit we looked pretty fucking adorable. They commented (in Dutch) how nice of an American girl I was. I was flattered, at least I thought that’s what my reaction was supposed to be.

Back inside the house, we huddled together on the couch with bowls of tomato basil soup, watching Christmas movies in a nest of blankets and critters. We answered the phone calls from Isaac’s parents, Mac, my brother Jack, and our individual band members who wished us happy holidays.

As the sun dipped down behind the trees, we ended up on the floor to unwrap our gifts to each other. I’d turned on my classic Christmas songs playlist on my laptop, excited like a twelve year old, and settled against the couch with my own plate of cookies and other unhealthy Christmas treats. The air had a hint of burning wood. I was dressed in my oversized, “ugly” Christmas sweater, wine colored leggings, reindeer printed stockings, and—of course—a Santa hat. Isaac was all too accustomed to my zealous Christmas spirit and hardly batted an eye.

The crinkling of wrapping paper filled our living room, camouflaging with the crackling of the fire place. We helped our five fur children unwrap their gifts, along with ours. Isaac gave me a new pair of diamond earrings that most likely would fall to my shoulders, Starbucks gift cards galore, the new Guns N Roses book Last of the Giants, and a new crockpot. I shamefully admit I may have been most excited over the crockpot…

Isaac received a new tweed coat, dress shoes, Dream Theater’s newest album on vinyl, and a shirt that read “MY WIFE SHREDS BETTER THAN ME”. I tried really hard not to buy it, but Jess prompted me until I did. I told him to blame her. He laughed and rewarded me with the sincerest of kisses. I held onto him, refusing to let him pull away. I felt his lips upturn against mine, a chuckle resonating in his chest before he gently pushed me back onto the floor.



“I don’t know why, but sex seems so much better now that we’re married,” I said from my side of the bed. Again, naked.

Isaac’s teeth flashed from the dim lighting of lights I’d hung over the headboard. “I’d have to agree.”

I cuddled closer to him and let out a long sigh. “This is good. This whole Christmas thing, just you and me.”

Isaac’s arm wrapped around me. He continued smiling and I hoped he’d never stop. “I’d have to agree.”

“Are you just going to agree with everything I say tonight?”

“Depends if you’re right or not.”

“Wise.”

Isaac pressed his lips firmly against mine and I wound my fingers through his hair. In that moment, I tried to convert all the love I felt for that man in a single moment. How good he made me feel. More than good. With him, I was finally, truly happy. I didn’t think I could ever reach this point in euphoria, even when we got back together after two years apart, even after we moved in together in Brussels or bought the house in Tervuren.

It was when I asked him on a whim during vacation in Switzerland, “hey, wanna get married?” and he answered yes. It was when we said our “I do’s” in a courthouse in Zermatt and came home as Mister and Misses Isaac Delahaye. Despite all the heartbreak and chaos, we were together and I could never put into words how much joy that brought me.

It was our first Christmas as husband and wife and I looked forward to so many more of those Christmases—just the two of us.



A two-part choir of giggling came from the dining room, Isaac’s throaty laugh and a high-pitched tinkering of innocence. “Daddy, you’re not supposed to bite its head off!”

“But it tastes so good!” Isaac argued and I heard the thickness in his voice that signaled his mouth was full of cookie snowman brains.

The giggling continued with more exclamations in protest of cookie snowmen’s right-to-life. “Okay, you two,” I said, feeling the need to interfere. “I hear more talking and not so much frosting.” I put my hands on my hips and looked at the two hooligans at the kitchen table. Isaac was standing with a half-eaten cookie in his hand. Beside him was our eight-year old daughter, Emmaline Cadeau, with her caramel colored hair pulled back in pigtails. Her fawn-like eyes looked at me with a mix between hesitation and mischief.

“Its Daddy’s fault,” she said nonchalantly and went back to frosting the Christmas tree cookie in her hand.

Isaac’s jaw dropped indignantly and I had to stifle a snort. “You weren’t supposed to rat me out! But Liefje! Waarom doe je me dit aan?”

“Omdat je een onschuldige sneeuwman gedood.” Emmaline’s bluntness was courtesy of me and Isaac knew this because he looked at me with a dogged look.

Father and daughter often switched between Dutch and English and I tried my hardest to understand what was said. My Dutch skills were borderline proficient, but sometimes I still struggled. So I only smiled and shook my head.

“Dinner will be ready soon so chop-chop.”

Emmaline’s face lit up. “Can I have hot chocolate for dinner?”

Isaac and I shared a look that silently conversed on if we were in agreement or not. Finally, I nodded and said, “since its Christmas Eve, yes.”

Emmaline cheered. Her little round face lit up like the Christmas tree in the living room, her laugh more pure and beautiful than any music Isaac or I could ever make. She wanted to help me make her hot cocoa in her bright yellow Pikachu mug. My own was spiked with Tennessee Fire in its Guns N Roses mug.

Emmaline happily slurped her drink alongside her plate of ham, mashed potatoes, and steamed vegetables. The conversation was a casual one, mostly involving our daughter excitedly telling us she was “perfecting” her playing on “Sweet Child O Mine” and working on the main riff of “Needled 24/7”. Just like her mama, she was a huge fan of Slash.

She was actually a huge fan of anything, combining both Isaac and I’s taste. When she was just born, if Isaac put her to sleep, he’d hum “Tides of Time” or a Dream Theater song. I’d whisper along to “I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing” or “November Rain”. She grew up surrounded by all types of music since Isaac and I had open minds to most any genre. Of course, her prime influencers were Epica and Memento Mori and we really couldn’t help that.

During her first ballet performance, she showed her true colors to her teacher when she was asked what song she wanted to dance to. Something similar to what all the other kids wanted, something common, was expected. Emmaline convinced her teacher she would only dance to “Delirium” and nothing else. Isaac was such a proud dad, you couldn’t knock the smile off his face while he watched his six year old daughter strut out onto the stage and then dance around to one of his band’s songs. Her teacher, Mrs. Maes, would go on to learn that Emmaline Delahaye was cut from a little different cloth than all her other students.

Emmaline helped Isaac do the dishes while I stepped out on the back porch for a smoke. I was cursing my body for deciding to give me cravings on Christmas, but with the stress, it was expected. Despite my efforts to always make Christmas the best for Emmaline, this one was a struggle. Mac’s cancer had come back, Isaac’s mom wasn’t doing well health-wise either, we had just put Nemo down before Thanksgiving, and I was struggling with songwriting for the next album.

But I was determined.

Emmaline would always have a good Christmas experience. The fact that none of my Christmas’ as a child were enjoyable fueled that goal. So as I watched—bundled up with a cigarette between my fingers—Isaac and her conversing from the kitchen window, I knew my goal had yet again been reached. I took another drag before squashing the cigarette butt in its designated ash tray.

Slash sat right next to Emmaline while she opened her gifts, looking contently down at her as she tore open the wrapping paper with vigor. Dog and daughter sat within the walls of a Christmas gift battlement, enforced with festive wrapping paper and glimmering bows. Isaac was seated on the floor, while I was in between his legs leaning against his chest. We watched our daughter’s face brighten further when she unveiled her third gift.

“An Axe FX amp?” Her mouth dropped open before she began to flail about. “Thank you so much!” she squealed. “This ones supposed to be better for what I want than a Bogner.”

Goddamn, I don’t think we could get much prouder.

We spoiled our daughter and were well-aware of it. Isaac couldn’t help it because his heart was too big and he was practically a kid himself sometimes. I just wanted to be the best parent I could be, better than the parents I grew up with. Isaac understood where I came from. When I first found out I was pregnant with Emmaline, I was terrified. Having the mental instabilities I had, I figured a child would only make things worse. The stresses would destroy what little sanity I had and Isaac and I’s marriage—my one true chance at happiness—would parish.

Our daughter had done quite the opposite. She brought us both immense amounts of joy. She gave me a purpose. While I wanted to be perfect for Isaac—the perfect man—I wanted to simply be a good parent for Emmaline. I wanted to be supportive and caring. Being a wife and mother had solidified my place in the world as a functioning human being.

I was no long poison to those around me. Instead, I had purpose. I had a reason to better myself rather than just accept a life of coasting and only hoping for a decent attempt at living.

I was interrupted in my thoughts by Emmaline flinging herself into my lap to wrap her arms around me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mommy,” she said and kissed me on the cheek. Isaac leaned forward to accept a peck as well.

I grabbed her around the waste and held her against me while she giggled and kicked. “You’re very, very welcome, little Pikachu.”

“I’m not Pikachu!” she protested and then fell into another state of giggling when I continued tickling her.

My success was on the horizon when Isaac decided it best to start poking me in the ribs. I shrieked and was out of his lap in an instant. I glared at him, but his smile was hard to break through.

“You saved me, Daddy!” Emmaline said, taking my place by her father. She looked up at me with a playful scowl.

I faux scowled back. “Fine. But this means…I’m going to get to the cookies first!” And I dashed out of the living room for the dining room. Two sets of stampeding feet came after me.

I grinned.