My refrigerator is plastered with pictures of babies.

It was Baby Derby 2006 among many of my friends. They all sent Christmas cards featuring the spuds in several states of cuteness — in Santa hats, draped in blankets, with soft lights. Lots of 'em.

It got me thinking about parenting.

What a commitment — to put someone else before yourself for a legally mandated 18 years, and usually well beyond. That kind of commitment, in my mind, is far greater than the kind marriage calls for.

It's not for the faint of heart. Or wallet.

Like most, I only came to appreciate how tough parenting is once I became an adult and started to see the world through wiser eyes.

Not that I was a bad kid, but I was typical — I wasn't aware the world didn't revolve around me. You should have seen the tantrum I threw when my mom wouldn't take me to see "The Empire Strikes Back" one night back when I was eight. Yes, she had promised, but she'd had a hard day at work, and I was oblivious and mad.

It takes superhuman patience to nurture out childish behavior. And it takes a long time. And it can be thankless. And sometimes you fail.

So who signs up for that? My friends have, in droves.

Can the breakfast in bed you get on Mother's Day be that good?

Of course, parenting isn't about what you get. (Unless you're banking on elder care.)

It's supposed to be an extension of the love you feel for your partner, your family, even the world. The hard work of parenting is a sacrifice made to live more love.

Those of us who haven't gone down that road have lots of other theories about why people take the plunge, borne of defensiveness to explain our babylessness: