This morning, Lucy and I were walking so early that we could have caught the school bus. Multiple school buses, in fact, and it got me thinking to my childhood years.

Just before the first grade, my family and I moved into a new school district. I was excited because the school was the one my family had gone to since forever (see: only my cousins), and I would get to ride the school bus.

The second day of school, I stood at the bus stop with my dad, awaiting the big yellow vehicle. (My parents wanted to drive When it arrived, I slowly climbed on, and I found a seat somewhere near the middle.

By the time we arrived at my elementary school, I was feeling sick.

(Note: As a kid, I got horrible, horrible motion sickness whenever I rode in the car. It didn’t matter if we were driving a mile or one hundred because I would always inevitably throw up.)

I didn’t tell anyone, though, and made my way to class.

That afternoon (and pretty much every afternoon until my mother noticed something was up), I felt sick on the way home, too, and when the bus door opened, I hustled my way out of the vehicle and ran into the bathroom in our home.

It was really unfortunate because, as much as I hated getting sick, riding the school bus was cool. And I had made a few friends on the bus.

I started taking motion sickness medicine before getting on the bus every morning, and my parents sent some to the nurse at school for me to take before I went home every day.

Things started getting a little better. The year passed, and all was well. The second grade year began, and I was excited to be riding the bus again.

One morning, I was running late. My dad saw the bus outside of our home and flagged it down, basically pushing me onto it and sending me on my way.

Turns out, it wasn’t my bus. It went a completely different route, and while I was sure I would eventually end up at my school, it was nerve-wracking because I did not know ANYONE on the bus. I knew almost immediately that I wasn’t on the right bus, but it had already started driving, and I plopped down in a seat lamely because I didn’t know what else to do.

I was traumatized. While I made it to school safe and sound, I was NOT a happy camper. And it turns out that my dad, after seeing my real school bus, freaked out and followed the bus I was riding to school to make sure I made it.

I think it was that point when I stopped taking my motion sickness medicine. I thought I’d be OK, and I clearly was not. The motion sickness came back in full force, worse than it was before.

When my parents noticed that I wasn’t feeling well riding the bus anymore, they began driving me to school. I was thankful for that — I couldn’t get on the wrong bus if I was riding in a car — and since we lived so close to the school, it didn’t really matter.

It also turned out that I got less sick riding in a car then in a bus. Sitting at the middle/back of the bus wasn’t good for the motion sickness, apparently, and I loathed this because I was never able to ride in the very back seat of a station wagon — you know, the one that faced backwards.

The next year, my sister began school and never had a bus experience, let alone a traumatic one, during her elementary years.

So when we passed some kids waiting on the school bus, I asked what they were doing. They told me the school bus was late, and they were waiting. So I told them I knew how they felt, not divulging that I was saved from the bus by my motion sickness a long time ago.