I love my family very much. But, true confession time here; I don’t love them enough to spend a year in a school bus with them. And by spending a year I mean actually living in a bus that has been converted into a family domicile.

My bus epiphany began in the Target parking lot where I saw a tricked out bus and wondered what its story was. Later that day, a friend (whose level of inquisitiveness is a standard I’m currently striving for) shared on Facebook that upon seeing the bus she actually did some low key peeping. This led her to discover that a family of five (“Simply Us and a Bus”) are living in the school bus and traveling the United States while posting about it on social media.

I was equal parts aghast and impressed. How could a family sequestered on a bus for a year emotionally survive? This lead to some deep thoughts about my family and I concluded that we would last, best case scenario, three weeks and then there would be an insurrection and the wheels on that bus would go round and round to a long-term mental health facility.

I could see the first two weeks feeling like a vacation adventure, of sorts, but after the glow of living in a bus that is eight feet wide and less than 30 feet long I fear we would all start to lose it.

It doesn’t matter how “cute” the bus is or how you can shiplap the entire interior and then add  “adorable” touches like a sisal runner and butcher block kitchen countertop my family would quickly get stabby over sharing a bathroom that is just a tad larger than a lavatory on a Southwest plane. (Just the fact that there might not be enough water pressure to thoroughly rinse out your hair conditioner makes me anxious.)

My daughter, without question, would bail first. She is by far the least patient member of the family. She’s also the baby of the family and with that comes certain expectations – the main one being good cell phone reception.

When I did research about living in a bus full time people shared that one of the downsides was bad or no cell service. I’d rather be trapped in a bus with a rabid, 600-pound, hybrid Grizzly/Sasquatch that was foaming at the mouth than with my daughter going into week three of no cell phone service. At least with the “Grizquatch” I’d have, maybe, a one percent chance of survival.

I have to admit that I’d probably be swiftly following my daughter right out of that bus (or elbowing her to make it out first). I’d blame it on claustrophobia but the real reason would be that I couldn’t handle the trifecta of iffy air conditioning, no washer/dryer, (Can you even begin to imagine the volume of wet towels?) and everyone blaming me for the bus “adventure.”

I can hear the condemnation, “OMG, the only reason we’re stuck in this bus is because you wanted something to write about!”

My husband would use his wife and daughter escaping the bus as an excuse to also exit because he would need to make sure “we were safe.”

This would leave my son as on the only one who would solider on. And by that I mean he would sell the bus, pocket the money and probably spend a couple of weeks at a luxury resort mocking his sister by texting her pictures of his four star accommodations.

Upon reflection maybe it’s not that I don’t love my family enough to live with them on a bus maybe it’s that I love them too much or at least that’s how I’m spinning it.

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