I have 22 children, 20 by adoption. That may sound somewhat unreal or perhaps even a little intimidating to you. I want to tell you that I remember my very first adoption conference – in 1983 – as if it occurred last week. I remember my heart pounding in anticipation and the sweatiness of my palms. I remember agonizing over what to wear certain that my suitability for adoption was going to be judged and my fate could be sealed by first impressions. I remember wondering about the other couples (at that time it never even occurred to me that some adoptive parents might be single...) that would be attending and even feeling a tinge of competitiveness with them, even though my husband and I had already decided that we wanted to adopt children that "no one else wanted.”

Well, I survived that first adoption conference, the first homestudy, the first agonizing waiting period for a referral, the first disappointment when the child we had a picture of in our wallet did not end up in our arms, and the thrill and fear of meeting our first child.

It has been a scary, challenging, thrilling, joyous, confusing, frustrating and rewarding journey from that first conference until today -- one that I would definitely repeat if I had the opportunity to live my life over again. Today will be both a “travelogue” of my personal journey and a bit of a road map for you to consider as you take your own journey. You can pretend you are sitting in a Triple A office, and I am your customer service representative, eager to assist you in planning your own very special trip to a very wonderful destination.

There are at least two ways to take a road trip, to focus solely on the destination, or to enjoy the trip as well. My mother's approach to travel was to focus strictly on the destination. All the planning, preparation and anticipation centered around the goal of reaching the destination as quickly and safely as possible.

When I was a child, I lived in Vermont. My mother's closest relatives lived in Detroit. Each summer, our family would take a road trip from Vermont to Detroit, mapped out by mom. To her, arriving safely in Detroit in the shortest amount of time was not only the primary goal, it was the only goal. Routes were not planned with any thought to scenic beauty or historic interest. The only question was: what is the shortest route? Well, this approach did work. Year after year, we made it to Detroit. Hot, sweaty, frazzled by sun glare and traffic, cranky and irritable but nevertheless, we arrived.

As a child, I never enjoyed those trips and swore that I would never repeat these horrors on my own children when I became an adult. As an adventurous, footloose and fancy free college student, I learned that there is another way to travel.

There is a way to take a trip that focuses as much on the journey itself as on the destination. "Getting there is half the fun," the old saying goes, and I learned that this can indeed be true. In the succeeding years, my husband and I have taken numerous road trips, sometimes just the two of us and sometimes with all the kids.

While we have a destination in mind, and an approximate hoped for arrival date, we expend very little of the energy needed for planning, preparation and anticipation of the trip focusing on the destination. Instead, routes are chosen for a variety of reasons: scenic vistas, historic sites, old friends we might visit along the way, or simply for adventure, if we've never done it before, let's give it a try!

Travel schedules are not urgent, and so stops can truly be rest stops, not merely pit stops. Rocks and flowers can be collected, local cuisine can be sampled and new friends can be made at roadside stands or picnic spots.

Detours and delays, rather than being headaches to endure can become opportunities to explore, opportunities to spend time together, make new friends, see new sites or learn something unexpected. Some of our favorite travel memories are from the times we were detoured off our planned route, or when our van broke down (which it often does!). We have been given pony rides against a spectacular Idaho mountain backdrop, offered fresh sweet corn by farmers in Illinois and witnessed a glittering display of fireworks while eating Domino's pizza in a parking lot in Salt Lake City. All of these moments were unexpected, and unplanned, but very memorable.

Like a road trip, an adoption takes planning, preparation and anticipation. And like a road trip, there are at least two approaches one can take, the one that is focused on the destination (for example "bringing home a child") or the one that is focused on the journey itself ("living every moment of the adoption experience").

One of my oft' quoted and favorite adoption truisms is this: "Adoption is a lifelong experience." Indeed, a lifelong journey for all involved. So it is definitely worth making "getting there" be half the fun. Your adoption roadmap will be filled with delays and detours. You may not smoothly glide through each step of the process and on to the next.

But if your energy is on the journey itself, not simply the destination, then these detours can become interesting experiences in their own right, “teachable moments”, parables for our lives from God’s rich treasure trove - not simply hassles and heartbreaks to be endured. Remember -- There is a whole world of adoption travel to explore past Detroit.

I would like to share just a couple of stories with you from our own adoption journey.

I learned much about adoption from my grandfather’s garden.

When I was a child, my grandpa, “Papa” had a huge garden, and I loved spending time watching him work the garden. Being the pesky little kid that I was, I peppered him with questions. “Papa, why are there more of these plants than those?” “Papa, why is this one in the shade?” “Papa, why do those need stakes to hold them up but the others don’t?” “Papa, why do some look so pretty?” “Papa, how can you tell the weeds from the good plants?” And so on. . . . and on . .. .and on!

He was always so patient to answer me, and I learned many life lessons there in Papa’s garden. I was reminded of these lessons one year on a family trip when a farmer in Idaho invited our family over for dinner and proudly showed us his acres and acres of spectacular gardens.

Over the years, I have learned that being a mom, particularly being a mom to children with special needs is a lot like being a gardener. You prepare the soil. You plant, you water. You fertilize, weed, prune and most of all you watch and wait.

Some flowers need lots of light, others need a cooler, darker, damper place to grow. Water this one every day - that one only once a week. This one needs rich soil, this one does better in a sandy base.

So much to keep straight.

You have no control over the elements - the sun, the rain, the wind, early frost, squirrels, vandals. You pray and watch and wait.

Some children are like zucchini -- it seems they will grow and thrive anywhere. Some are more like hot-house flowers – all conditions must be "just so” for them to reach their full potential. Some require so much more work than others – but only just imagine what boring gardens we would have if we all opted for nothing but zucchini!

When a bud appears on a plant, you rejoice and marvel in wonder at its beauty as if unfurls. When one begins to bow, or break, you carefully seek to provide it with extra supports and strength. You tie it to a stick, you give it extra TLC. If it makes it you sing, if it does not, you weep.

Sometimes, your best efforts are not enough and sometimes, the resilience of a plant to make it in spite of all your mistakes amazes you.

And now, I am a grandmother too, and one of my darling grandsons has autism. He and one of our adult sons with Asperger's are two of the quirkiest plants in our family garden. While the other grandchildren call me “Nana,” he calls me “Bama.” Hearing him say, “Bama” in his endearing little voice can light up my heart in a way that nothing else can.

He is so smart! His favorite subject is the Statue of Liberty, and he knows everything about it. He is so annoying! He can repeat the same word, or song or activity for hours on end. He is so intense! He will melt down completely if a particular little toy is misplaced. He is predictable, yet he can also be unpredictable. He is adorable, yet he can also be maddening.

He is not a zucchini.

But he is a magnificent addition to our garden.

On one of our trips, when the kids were small, we took a hike in the Appalachian mountains. Oh, mind you, we only covered a short distance on an easy walking trail, Hector and I each with a small child in a back pack on our backs, a couple of other little ones at times lurching ahead and at times straggling behind.

While we were hiking, I noticed that many hikers passed us. They were much better equipped than us. They had fancy hiking shoes, amazing-looking backpacks, everything to ensure that they would indeed make it to the top of the mountain. I was a bit envious, and wondered if I would ever have that experience of making it to the top of the mountain. As I looked over my motley crew, my eyes fixed on my small son with cerebral palsy, a child who was predicted to never walk, picking his way along the mountain path. And my eyes filled with tears. I realized then, that he was every bit as successful a mountain climber as the pros with their fancy equipment.

Years later, as I stood at the foot of another mountain, at the finish line, waiting for my son George to cross, completing a national collegiate cross- country track competition, I was reminded of that lesson. George came to us with at the age of 7, with such significant cognitive and behavioral special needs (he had already thrown two desks out the window of his elementary school) that a psychologist told us, in front of George, “He may one day write his own name, but do not expect high school graduation.” Now, 24 years later, he had not only graduated from high school, but was enrolled in college and competing in national competition -- it’s not about getting to the top of the mountain, it’s about putting one foot in front of the other and continuing the climb.

I have a daughter with cerebral palsy. We adopted her when she was a year old. At the time, the prediction was that she would never walk, feed or dress herself. During the pre-adoption phase we were asked if our home was wheelchair accessible and if we were prepared for the challenges of raising a child in a wheelchair. But we were never asked if we were prepared for the challenges of helping her work through the pain of physical therapy so she would NOT have to spend her life in a wheelchair -- in effect, becoming permanently physically “crippled.”

We worked with the therapists and we believed that perhaps one day she would be able to walk. So we challenged her. We “forced” her to endure physical therapy sessions and then we continued the exercises at home. It was not often comfortable for her or for us. It would have been much easier to accept the idea that she would never walk, to “respect” her desire not to do the exercises and to avoid the pain the therapy brought into all of our lives.

But we did not choose that route. We took the hard road. With all of the parenting wisdom we could muster, we decided that it was in her best interests to “force” her to endure the discomfort. We stood with her in her pain and held her and comforted her through the pain but we did not allow her to avoid it.

Today, she not only walks, she runs. She hikes. She swims. She leaps on the trampoline. She dances, dances, dances, day and night – so much so that she realistically is planning for a career in dance.

The pain, the struggle, the challenges and the discomfort of the physical therapy were for her, a path to physical wholeness, and an opportunity to reach her potential and have a fuller and happier life than she may have otherwise had.

Sometimes bringing our children’s birth parents into their lives - and ours – or sharing the details of their early life histories which may include abuse, neglect – plenty of pain – bringing this pain into our lives - whether through truth-telling conversations, visits, therapy or behavioral experiences - can be as uncomfortable and at times even painful for our children - and for us - as the physical therapy was for my daughter (and us). Sometimes it would be easier to avoid all that discomfort and pain. Sometimes it feels like we would not be listening to or respecting our child’s needs if we “force” them to deal with people or subjects that bring them discomfort or pain.

But do we really want to risk emotionally “crippling” our children? Confining them, permanently, to “emotional wheelchairs?” Creating a lifetime of pain in exchange for avoiding some discomfort during their childhood or teens? Can we afford to take that risk? Is it really a choice?

Or do we want to find ways that we can stand with them as they work through the pain -- comforting where we can, sharing the discomfort when we must and challenging them to strive for wholeness?

Sometimes, while on our journey we may find we get into accidents. Let me tell you about a car accident that I was in a number of years ago. I was driving through the night, and around 3 in the morning I was still 150 miles from my destination. I was starting to get sleepy and fighting my eyelids as they kept threatening to close.

I lost that particular battle. And the next thing I knew, I was in a ditch, upside down, pinned between the steering wheel and the door. I was terrified that I would never be able to get out. Who would see me here, there were not even any cars passing by at this hour of the day? From time to time, I would see the glimmer of headlights passing by on the road above. But none stopped.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, a trucker stopped. I was so relieved, so thankful, I could hardly express my gratitude. I had broken ribs, and assorted other bones, including my wrist, which had sustained a compound fracture and required surgery and the insertion of metal pins to fix it. So, it’s fixed. But it is not the same as it was before the accident. I cannot open a jar to save my life. But I can do some things I couldn’t do before – for example, I can sometimes predict the weather.

So, about that trucker – if he had known that I was unfixable – that I would never be “good as new” again, should he still have stopped? Or was I so damaged, that he would have been smarter to drive on by?

I think that he made a good choice. It cost him time, took him out of his way, set him back on his route for the day, and yet he endured those inconveniences for a “damaged” person. And as a result, I have learned to do old things – like open jars – in new ways.

And as I think about some of my most “damaged” children, Dylan, who was a shaken baby; Wayne, who has a terminal illness; Janessa, who is blind; or some of the bigger ones, emotionally “damaged” by all kinds of brutal life experiences. I know that some people look at them and only see the “wreck,” but I like to look at them and see them as survivors. And I am always amazed how, in spite of the “damage” they have sustained, they are able to find amazing new ways to do old things that many of take for granted – communication, relationships, eating, moving, getting through the day. And it’s worth it.

OK, here is the last story I have to share with you today. We were on one of our family trips one year when I was really depressed. I had just gotten some news about one of my daughters that I found really upsetting. One son was in jail, another was experimenting with drugs, and a teen daughter was pregnant. What a mess my family seemed to be in.

So we were on a trip, and we were at the ocean back east -- a place on the shore where there are thousands of shells along the beach. There are so many pieces of broken shells that it is hard to walk without crunching them under your feet.

I got up one of those mornings extra early, before the rest of the family and headed down for a walk on the beach. When I got there, well before the sun rose, thinking I would be alone, I found several other people already on the beach. And they had pails, and they were walking along picking up shells. I watched them for a while, and noticed that there was a pattern – they would reach down, pick up a shell, and then look at it closely. A few then were dropped into their pail, while most were dropped back to the sand. And it occurred to me that these shell seekers were seeking perfect, beautiful shells to save. They were examining them for cracks, holes, and other faults, casting the broken ones back and saving only those deemed perfect.

I found myself starting to pick up shells, too.

And as I held one particular fragile, delicate lacy piece of a broken shell in my hand, while watching the pounding waves crash and break against the shore, I became amazed. How did this fragile little shell survive? I wondered. How is it that it was not totally pulverized by the power of the sea? I looked at this broken shell with new eyes. Instead of seeing its brokenness, I saw its strength, its uniqueness, its resilience. WOW – this little shell fragment had been tossed, slammed, dunked, twirled and yet, here it was, in my hands, like spun glass -- glistening in its beauty.

And I thought about my daughter, my sons, my children whose poor choices and disappointing circumstances were weighing me down, threatening to drown me – my emotions being battered, tossed, pounding and resounding through my heart and mind like the waves against the shore – I realized how amazing it was that they had survived the sea of experiences life had brought their way. And I knew they were like this broken shell. Exquisite and amazing. And like a shell, their life belongs to the sea, yet my home is the shore. My home is just a resting place, a healing place, a time apart from the waves of life for a few brief years, before they face again the crashing and pounding of the waves and the life of the sea.

So what have I learned from all these detours along the way in my adoption journey? I have learned that when you take a trip, you better take along a really good tool kit. You know, when we set out to drive from the east coast to the west, through hills and valleys, big cities and small towns, highways and dirt roads, we need to learn that we will experience flat tires, we will get lost, the air conditioner will quit, and so on. We need a good tool kit. And so before I sit down today, I would just like to tell you what I have learned to put in my own personal adoption toolkit and maybe it will help you to think about what goes into yours.

Into my tool kit goes touch and affection, a whole box of different communication styles, several different anger management techniques and stress relievers, a set of advocacy weights to pump, a boatload of jokes and laughter, a bottle to collect my tears and friends to share the journey with. It’s my Triple A plan! I hope you have one too. So whether this is a first time adoption experience for you or a refueling stop on your journey, I hope that each and every one of you will have a rewarding and happy trip. I hope you will truly take the time to enjoy the view and take many side trips. "Getting there" is not really half the fun. It is everything.

Sue Badeau and her husband, Hector, are the parents of twenty-two children and more than 20 grandchildren. They served as foster parents for more than 75 children within the United States, as well as a host family for refugee youth from several other countries. Sue acted as the Deputy Director of the Pew Commission on Children in Foster Care and currently travels throughout the United States as a professional speaker and advocate for adoption and foster care.