It can be hard to explain what Family Week means to families like mine. I live in a so-called “liberal bubble”; we are lucky that, most of the time, side-eyes and mean comments about our family composition are essentially non-existent, with an exception sprinkled into the mix every now and then just to keep us on our toes. We get to go about our lives pretty much exactly as I imagine families headed by a mom and a dad go about theirs. Pretty much, anyway.
And then Family Week arrives. We pack our car to the brim with everything we own - really, kids, do you need ten stuffed animals each? - and head down 93 to Route 3, praying that traffic won’t be too bad on the bridge this year. (Maybe I’m praying to the wrong gods because traffic is ALWAYS bad on the bridge every year.) We arrive 9287528375 hours later, and when my feet hit the sand at the Provincetown Inn beach, a weight I didn’t know I was carrying melts off my shoulders. This happens with every arrival, but I’m invariably surprised and overwhelmed by how freeing it is to be in this amazing place with my chosen family: old friends, new friends, and friends I haven’t met yet sharing the beach and the sun and the joy of being surrounded by families like our own. Also, the joy of pizza from Twisted. Let us not forget pizza from Twisted.
As I sit here anticipating another snow storm (maybe a snow day this time?), I’m dreaming of Provincetown and looking forward to seeing my new friends, old friends, and the friends I haven’t met yet this year. Someday I’ll move to Provincetown permanently. Until then, we’ll have Family Week.
