I’ve been seeing Batman a lot lately: T-shirts, the toy aisle at Wal-Mart, a milk ad on the back of my son’s Sports Illustrated Kids magazine, even on a box of fruit snacks at the grocery store.
And while I don’t mind seeing the Dark Knight — in fact I’m probably going to see the movie when it comes out in a few weeks — it bothers me that all this marketing is aimed at kids far too young to see this movie. And I know first hand what kind of nightmare that can create for parents.
Every time Spiderman has spun his web, Batman has donned his cape or the X-Men have reunited — each with a PG-13 rating — I have to tell my boys that they probably won’t be seeing these films in the theater. My husband and I try to watch them first to see if we think they’re appropriate or we read the reviews and movie Web sites, trying to get a feel for the movie’s content. The ratings system, at least for me, is puzzling, and I rarely trust it when making a decision about my children seeing a movie.
After we’ve done our homework, sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes, we’ve allowed them to watch the movies at home on video or in the theater.
But even if the answer was no, it didn’t quench their anticipation of these films nor the desire to collect the superhero shirts or the toys they saw on display in the store aisles. And those marketing gimmicks work — as they would ask over and over to see these films.
As a parent, it becomes an uphill battle with mommy and daddy as the bad guys.
With the Dark Knight movie about to hit theaters, I’ve already warned my boys of the rules. Call me selfish but I won’t be able to enjoy the movie myself if I’m worried that my almost 10-year-old is getting freaked out by Heath Ledger’s very creepy version of the Joker. And I don’t want to deal with the nightmares that night. And as his mother, I don’t want him scared in a dark theater when I have the power to prevent that.
When I was a teenager, my brother and I went to see Tim Burton’s version of Batman, with Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson. I read reviews and saw television spots warning parents that the film was not for young children. But sure enough a family with three children under the age of 8 sat down in front of us in the theater and the kids cried and complained through the whole film.
I don’t know if these parents were selfish, ignorant or if they were just nagged into seeing the film by their oldest child, wearing a Batman shirt. All I know is that these kids didn’t enjoy the film and I doubt their parents did either. Not to mention others in the audience that day.
I know these words aren’t going to change Hollywood’s marketing techniques. I realize my little voice will be quickly drowned out by the roar of the almighty dollar. But I feel better venting before I have to go home and tell the kids I’ll probably be seeing Batman before they do.

Max hit 13 weeks old Sunday. On Tuesday night, he went to sleep just before 10 p.m. I carried him upstairs and went to bed myself. The next thing I heard was my alarm going off at 4:45 a.m. When I left about 5:30 a.m., he was still out cold.

That, my friends who have never parented a newborn, is an incredible feeling.

Of course, Max slept until 6 a.m. last Thursday morning, but that was the night Jack woke up at 12:30 a.m. throwing up all over the place, keeping he, Kristie and I awake for the next two hours. Did I mention I was taking Thursday day off of work and could have slept in? Ugh.

Someone who posted a comment at the end of my column this week, a mock commencement address to the class of 2008, suggested I should have mentioned students wait until age 25 to marry and age 28 to have children.

I have encountered similar sentiments before, and I always take a little umbrage since I was married at age 22 and, when I turn 29 this summer, I’ll have my two young boys at the birthday party. My wife is nearly a year youger than me. Our wedding was three days after her 22nd birthday.

That said, I know maturity is a relative thing. I know plenty of people aged in their mid-20s who don’t feel ready for marriage, and I’m fine with that. I didn’t feel ready to consume alcohol until I was of legal age, but I know countless people who felt inclined to start imbibing toward the end of high school.

Yet I also tend to think people having children very late in the childbearing window — say after 45 — are perhaps waiting too long, as there are more health risks for mother and child, not to mention the rigors of parenting a young child that take a toll on me when Im supposed to be in the physical prime of my life. My parents were just north of 50 when Jack was born in 2004. I think they’re pretty happy not to have any grade school children at home. The new dog is enough of a headache.

Maybe I’m hyprocitrical there, thinking I was perfectly fine having a child at 24 but suggesting someone else reconsider if they’re 44.

But what do you think? Is there a magic number? When did you feel ready for marriage and children — or did it happen before you felt fully prepared?

$350 for a dress
$35 for shoes
$30 for a hairdo
$25 for jewelry/accessories
$150 for flowers
$250 for photos to commemorate it all

Those prices, give or take, were what we paid a mere 13 years ago for some of my wedding necessities. I was having a hard time comprehending that these prices are just the tip of the iceberg for prom these days. My goodness, these are the prices are what are paid for homecoming anymore.

When I think about the fact that I only went to one prom, I remember being grateful that my mom went through the expense of having my dress made for me. After weeks of dress shopping my mom and I came to the conclusion that we would never find a dress that would fit or flatter me, much less be what I wanted. I still remember being so thrilled when I put the dress on for the first time and loving the fact that I had decided everything about the dress. I had chosen the style, the color, the material, the length – everything. It was my senior year and my only prom.

Now, the prices I mentioned before are brushed off as necessity for many a prom, homecoming or eighth-grade formal…

Huh? Did I hear that right?

I think I did. I don’t know how long it has been happening, but apparently there is now an eighth-grade formal that takes place at many area middle schools. Maybe I’m a little too naïve about this and I am making too much of something that should be considered a special event. But, you know what? When I look back and think about how, at the time, I could have been considered spoiled since I got almost everything I wanted, I realize that even I wasn’t expecting this kind of extravagance.

Something of this nature seemed like it would have been more trouble than it was worth. From the time I was in first grade and up until my eighth grade year, I took dance. At the end of each year, there was a recital that required expensive costumes, shoes, hair, make-up and accessories for a week of performances. I remember I loved dance and the accomplishment of learning and perfecting my routines. I was happy with doing just that. But then, the big deal of the recital and going through all the commotion seemed to be too much. But, I was proud to be able to show off my ability to dance, so I went through all the commotion.

Throughout high school there were many dances that I went to and none of which required me to buy anything other than maybe a sweater, skirt or a new pair of dress pants. When I think about it, most of the time we were in jeans and maybe a nice top. Homecoming I think was the most dressed up with the sweater and skirt. Some girls wore dresses, but nothing too extreme. The court wore their dresses and that was because they were supposed to stand out from the rest of us.

The extravagance was saved for prom that was supposed to be your junior or senior year, not for eighth grade. I know that making such an assertion may draw negative feedback from some, but why would we want our children to go through such extravagances at such an early age? Next thing you know, there will be fifth-, sixth- or even seventh-grade formals, because parents don’t want the other children left out. Don’t get me wrong, I love the idea of the children getting dressed up and looking special. But, the extremes that some have gone through have me wondering, just how much money will be spent and just how special is prom actually going to be when it finally comes? Or worse… what am I going to have to deal with when my 10-year-old reaches eighth grade?

I wouldn’t expect anyone else to know this, but the theme for the 1993 Libertyville High School homecoming dance was “River of Dreams” by Billy Joel. I think. I’m pretty sure in 1994 it was “Forever Young” by Rod Stewart. I know for certain that 1995’s was Tom Cochrane’s “Life is A Highway” and 1996 was “Jungle Boogie” by Kool and the Gang.

Anyhow, those familiar with “River of Dreams” will know the contstantly repeated words “In the middle of the … I go walkin’ in my…” They come from the first two lines Billy Joel sings, “In the middle of the night, I go walkin’ in my sleep.”

As the parent of an almost-6-week-old, I do an awful lot of that these days. Max’s newest routine is to eat somewhere between 5 and 7 p.m., then throw a ridiculous fit until he basically wears himself out for the night around 8:30 p.m. Sometimes you get a few false alarms where he seems to be all worn out, but five minutes later he’s back at it, even madder than the last time. It is times like these when he’s too mad to eat, even if he is hungry, so you just have to hold, rock, sway … any nonviolent verb you can think of in hopes he’ll calm down.

When he does finally go down for the count, he sleeps hard. Wednesday night it was about six hours; Thursday night it was at least five. Assuming I can get to sleep shortly after he does (and believe me, I want nothing more), then I get more uninterrupted sleep than I’ve had for weeks.

The downside is, when he wakes up hungry at 2 or 2:30 a.m., he’s not in one of those “eat and sleep” moods I enjoyed earlier this week. Rather, he figures to be up for a good two hours. Since my alarm clock buzzes at 4:45 a.m., that means some days when I wake at 2 a.m, I’m up for all day.

The point of this diatribe, which I’m mostly writing for my own advice, is to remember that these two hours I have alone with my son ought to be at least partially enjoyed. Early Friday morning, Max was wide awake. I kept trying to get him to sleep so I could sleep, but he was just content to hang out in the near-darkness, eyes open and looking around the room, until he got tired of sitting in his car seat and demanded I pick him up.

Sincne I judge the success of each evening on how many hours of sleep we all get, I was seeing nothing but failure. What I need to remind myself is how few times I get to be with Max when he’s just content. It seems when I’m home from work, I’m either feeding or changing him or trying to rock him to sleep. If Kristie has him, which is more often the case, that means I’m doing laundry or some other chore.

If Max is going to be awake from 2 to 4 a.m. each day, I might as well make the most of it. Heaven knows I have enough TV shows recorded — several hours of dreck — maybe I could watch “Baseball Tonight” and explain the infield fly rule or try to see if Max can handle the rapid-fire jokes of “30 Rock.” Or maybe I could shut off the TV and just hang out with my kid. I know I’d be a lot less frustrated if I adjusted my expectations, but I might also need to rely more on the restorative powers of caffeine (my favorite carrier? The aptly named Diet Pepsi Max).

Part of me knows — and this is the responsible parent side talkinng — we all need our sleep, Max included. That’s why I work so hard to get Jack to take naps (a losing battle the last few days). But I also need to allow for a little bit of the “treasure every moment” sentimentality to creep in, or I’ll never remember enjoying Max as a baby. And that really would be a shame..

OK parents… What are your opinions about the whole Webkinz craze?

I was blissfully unaware of these creatures until last summer. I happened to hear about them on a radio talk show. I didn’t think much of it because the daughter of the woman who was talking about them was preschool-aged. The host talked about how much her daughter loved playing with the stuffed animal.

Oh boy! Another stuffed animal which will take up space and probably get lost anyway. Whoopdedoo!

Plus since both of my children are older, I thought I was safe from having to worry about being asked for such a thing.

Boy, was I out of the loop!

I had no idea just what kind of a world existed within the realm of these fuzzy, annoying, albeit kind of cute, creatures nor did I realize what I would have to go through to get one.

First: I had no idea my kids even knew what these things were. At that time, they had never mentioned them to me. Usually when there is a craze of some sort, my kids are on top of it and wanting it.

Second: I didn’t realize, despite the name, that these darn things required the child to be on the Internet. For the most part when my kids were ever on the Internet, they were playing on any one of the handful of children’s game sites. There were the few times we had to use the Internet for homework, too.

Third: I saved the best for last… Another toy to spend money on!

This past Christmas I was rudely introduced to these creatures as it became a MUST-HAVE on the Christmas lists. Amidst the chatter of the girls at gymnastics I heard, “I have 12.â€� “I have 14.â€� “I have 21!â€� 21 what? I thought to myself… The answer came loud and clear when my daughter piped up about wanting one of these darn things for Christmas. She only mentioned it about 3,000 more times after that first encounter.

I found out later that my son knew what these things were, too. And, I found out that he also wanted one. Well, it became clear that I had a mission… Get two Webkinz for Christmas.

The biggest problem I had was that I had no clue what they were. I figured I could walk into any department store and something would reach out and grab me saying “I am what the rest of the world knows about and you will be the world’s worst parent if you don’t get me for your kids!� The one department store, where my husband and I did 90 percent of the Christmas shopping for the kids, had a shelf where one of these rodents was sitting, staring at me and mocking me. The problem was painfully clear. One rodent, two kids.

I bought the darn thing thinking that I would be able to find another one in the five shopping days I had left. Surely there would be one somewhere where I could get my hands on it quickly and conveniently as I was passing through on a trip for necessities either here or there. Right?

Um, no. Between work, Christmas programs, family gatherings etc. it didn’t happen. Even a last minute race to a known supplier of these beady-eyed pests was unsuccessful — by about 15 minutes…

So, on Christmas morning, there were no Webkinz. It just didn’t happen.

Luckily, during one of the other family gatherings two of those fuzzy little vermin appeared. In case I forgot at the time, thank you, Aunt Jessie.

Both kids were thrilled after they opened their gifts. While the adults were talking and watching the youngest grandchildren enjoy their new, various noise makers. The older kids were talking about the names they were going to give their creatures.

After we made it home my husband helped the kids log in and properly name and adopt their animals. This, of course, led to the inevitable… The fight over who was going to do get to do what first for their Webkinz.

Yeah, thanks Aunt Jessie… (wink)

This is my seventh year with baseball leagues and I’ve come to the conclusion that parents are the ones that can ruin the experience.
Not all parents, mind you. The majority of parents are great. We just had our annual cleanup day at our two ballfields and I was amazed at how many people came and brought their own tools and equipment to make our fields playable for another year.
We’re a small rural league where we have no tax base or corporate sponsors so volunteers are vital. And we have plenty of good people willing to do it.
Unfortunately, there is also that small group of parents who can make the season a nightmare. And from talking to parents in other leagues, it’s the same no matter where you go. Why is that?
I’d like to think that these parents know who they are, but from my experience they don’t get it. They don’t realize that their behavior is setting a horrible example to the kids and is demoralizing to volunteers and coaches.
And it seems these parents take many forms:
— The parent who constantly criticizes the person running the concession stand, they way the league divides the teams, how to set up registration or any other organization project. I’m not talking about making suggestions. I mean going repeated, harsh criticism. But when asked to volunteer time? No way.
— The parent who insists on “helping” coach a team but does nothing but undermine the head coach or work to promote his own child’s position on the team, sure that little Johnny is going to be drafted into the majors.
— The parent who loudly criticizes not only their own child but other children on the team. And let’s not forget yelling at the coach and the umpire.
— The parent who is a half hour late picking up their child at the ballfield after practice is over or brings their child to the game during the second inning, then gets mad when he’s not immediately placed on the field.
— The coach who spends the whole game telling his 10-year-olds that they suck. (True story, but won’t name the town).
My message to all of these parents is this: Take a breath. Get a grip. Lighten up. This is about as minor league as you can get so sit down, shut up and enjoy it. Volunteer to help out instead of complaining. Shake the coach’s hand and thank him for all his hard work. Take your kid out for ice cream after the game and tell him he did great even if he struck out all three times at bat.
It’s a GAME. And all too soon the kids will be too old to play it anymore.

If you haven’t had a chance to read my column today, click here, then come back. It’s OK, I’ll wait.

Read it? Good. Now answer me this:

What convenience of modern parenting is the most important? Bottle warmers? Disposable diapers? The Noggin TV network? I imagine the answers will be different based on the ages of your children (those of you with teens might think it’s cell phones with embedded GPS units…) but I think it’s a fun conversation topic. Add your suggestions in the comments area.

Last night was an example of why people blog about their kids. Some stories are too good to go untold, yet they’re not exactly the kind of thing you want captured for eternity in a baby book. When they’re on a blog, though, you can go back through your archives in a few years and remember how different your life was as the parent of a newborn.

I got home from work about 4:30 p.m. Jack was napping, Max was eating. In the kitchen were a stack of dishes and, more importantly, bottles, that required almost immediate attention. Since Kristie generally needs to pump after Max finishes his bottle — and since he’s generally not able to stay in a good mood long enough for her to pump both sides — I offered to put off bottle washing to entertain Max.

She suggested I bring him into the kitchen to watch me wash the bottles since he seems to like the sound of running water (so long as he’s not naked and wet at the time). It sounded like a good plan, so off we went. I managed to get all the bottles and three bowls washed before his mood soured. So I left a tub full of warm, soapy water in the kitchen and picked up baby duty.

The important thing to know about Max is that, outside of late-night hours, he does not like to sleep unless someone is holding him. So Max and I spent the better part of an hour walking around the house, with him in varying stages of alertness. One of the things we did was trek to the basement to recover the frozen Lou Malnati’s pizza family friends sent to us earlier in the dad as a baby present. Unable to find a better tool, I used the sharp part of a mini-crowbar to open the cardboard box and free the pizza from its packing materials – all of this with a baby in the other arm, mind you – and located the cooking directions.

Around 5:30 p.m., Kristie decided to wake Jack from his nap. Jack decided Wednesday would be the day to release the previously hidden jealousy he’s been repressing since Max came home, insisting Kristie cuddle with him on the recliner and watch “Dora the Explorer� DVDs. Every time she tried to get up to tend to the pizza, he grabbed at her wrist and ordered her to stay with him. Max and I were in the spare bedroom watching the last three innings of the Cubs-Pirates game from Sept. 24, 1984, when the Cubs clinched the National League East title, which I’d recorded when Comcast replayed it in February as part of a Harry Caray tribute.

When the game ended, I decided Max was as asleep as he would ever get. I put him back in his car seat (where he prefers to sleep) and finished the dishes, which I completed at pretty much exactly the same time as the pizza was done and Max woke up screaming for food. Kristie said she’d feed Max so I could eat and be free to deal with him while she pumped. You don’t have to tell me twice when it’s time to eat dinner, so I agreed.

I wolfed down the pizza — deep-dish sausage, excellent as always — and got ready for Max. Good thing I had a full stomach, because this turned out to be one of the feedings Max follows with a screaming fit of epic proportions for no apparent reason. He doesn’t want more food. He doesn’t want to be held. He doesn’t want to be put down. He doesn’t want to be wrapped up. He doesn’t want to be unwrapped. He wants nothing other than to scream so loud Jack puts both hands on his ears and complains that he can’t hear the TV.

Yesterday’s weather being what it was — low 50s, even before dusk — I tried the old “put the baby in the car� trick, used to perfection with Jack Attack but not yet attempted with Monster Max. About 7:20 p.m. I bundled him up and headed for the door — which annoyed him even more. While I was getting my shoes on, Jack looks up and says “Dad! Why are you taking the baby?�

I thought Max was mad inside the house. Well, he was even more irate once I got him in the car. I started it and headed down the street, only to encounter a small-scale traffic jam at the neighborhood ice cream shop, which, incidentally, could stand to employ a part-time traffic cop.

Once I turned onto Main Street and got the car up to about 25 mph, the noise from the back seat stopped. I briefly entertained the notion of going to Wal-Mart, but I didn’t really need anything, and I didn’t want to be in the back end of the store if Max awoke. So I made a medium-sized loop around town, stopping at a halfway point so I could climb in the back seat and determine Max’s status. He seemed to be pretty well knocked out, so I headed home.

Once I got back, I decided to sit curbside for a few moments to see if Max would wake up, which he did after a minute or two. So I fired up the car again and headed off on a longer trip. I opted to stop at an automatic car wash, which gave me another chance to check on Max. He was still awake and remarkably unfazed by the car wash. By the time we got home, however, he was out cold.

We got back after 8 p.m. I learned that while I was away Kristie had gotten a chance to eat pizza but Jack refused (if it ain’t mac and cheese, we might as well not try to feed it to him). I put Max in the spare bedroom by himself with the lights off and started taking our recyclables to the curb. By the time I finished with that, Max was awake again. I got him out of his car seat and prepared for round two, but as soon as I picked him up he settled down. I typed a few one-handed e-mails and then headed for the couch. Kristie decided to go get horizontal for a while, but she said she wasn’t sleeping. Jack was amazingly playing by himself, which allowed me to watch TV. I opted for a recording of Tuesday’s episode of “Jeopardy!� and was pretty drowsy by the end, which was about 9 p.m.

Jack’s bedtime is 9:30, and he was happy so I let him play. Max was asleep and I was drowsy, so I went to sleep, too. I woke up at 10 p.m. All of the lights were on, but I didn’t see Jack. I got up (with Max) and went into the spare bedroom, where Kristie was out for good. Jack was in the bed with her. I told him he needed to go to bed. His response was along the lines of “Mom told me to go to bed with her.� Not having the energy to fight about it (and mainly not wanting to put down Max for fear he’d wake up) I issued my patented “Whatever, Jack,� and left the room and headed back for the couch.

The next time I woke up it was 11:30 p.m. and Max was stirring. Determined to have Jack spend the night in his own bed, I went in to the spare bedroom to fish him out. Not realizing the difference between an 8-pound infant and a 35-pound preschooler, I reached for Jack with one hand. The thrill of the night was putting that one hand in between Jack and the sheet, both of which were soaked with a ridiculous amount of urine.

Jack’s toilet training has been going exceptionally well for more than a month. He didn’t regress when Max was born, and he carried it through for the week spent at Kristie’s mom’s house. He almost always stays dry overnight… except for this night. So I fished some clean PJs out of a laundry basket and hauled Jack upstairs. I set him on the floor of his room and removed the offending pants and diaper — which didn’t seem all that wet, given the amount of pee on his pant. I put on a new diaper, then realized I put it on backwards, so I took it off and put it on the right way. After that he went fetal, so I hoisted him up and dropped him in bed, covered him with what I hoped was a dry blanket and then a small quilt. He stayed asleep and I headed downstairs.

The first thing I did was change Max’s diaper, which was barely wet — this from a newborn who’d been asleep almost six hours. Unbelievable. I fed Max while Kristie pumped, then I changed the sheets on the bed so she’d have somewhere to sleep. Max went back to sleep after he ate and stayed that way until 2:20 a.m., when he again woke up breathing hellfire. Lather, rinse repeat again at 4:30 a.m., only the 4:30 feeding was the kind where he drinks an ounce, releases a tremendous amount of gas and baby poo and then goes to sleep, which means he needs to be changed and woken so he’ll finish his food, otherwise he’d just wake up in another 30 minutes as angry as ever.

After Kristie finished pumping she stayed in the living room with Max, who was decidedly not sleepy. I hopped in the shower and got ready for work, albeit about 30 minutes later than I’d prefer. When I got out of the shower, all the lights were off and the living room was silent. So got dressed, fed the cats and ate a quick breakfast, all without incident. But just as I was putting on my coat, I heard Max start to fuss. The last thing I saw as I headed out the back door was Kristie’s arm reaching out from the couch to try to get Max to take his pacifier.

Lord knows what’s going on at my house this morning and what scene I’ll find when I get home for lunch. Kristie predicts Jack will be upset to wake up half-naked, so that’s a potential landmine. I’d like to think Max can have only so many fits in one day, but I know better. And Kristie’s still medically barred from driving, so she’s been trapped in our house since March 17. The most she’s seen of the outside world is going to get the mail, and the mailbox is bolted to our front porch.

This is all worth it, I keep telling myself, to raise more than one child in a big, happy family. I can deal without the sleep, I can withstand the screaming and I’ve certainly done more disgusting things that deal with pee-soaked kid clothes. In a few months Max will be so different that we’ll be dealing with all-new challenges, and this entire episode will be relegated to “Remember the time Jack wet our bed?� Then we’ll all laugh and move on to whatever challenges that day provides.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

As the parent of a newborn, I can’t think of a topic more people ask about than my sleeping habits. Am I getting enough sleep with a three-week-old at home?

Well, of course not.

The longest Max has slept in one chunk is somewhere between four and five hours. I was able to be out for most of that, but him sleeping that long is a rare occurrence. Both Kristie and I get up with Max during the night since I’m physically more able to hop right out of bed (or more often, right off the living room couch) to grab Max before he gets really, really angry. And Kristie is still pumping breast milk, which requires most of her attention during the task, about a 30-minute process.

Sometimes Max goes right back to sleep after he eats, sometimes it takes some walking and rocking. Either way, my day starts at 5 a.m. when I have to shower to get ready to work. And it’s near impossible to get 3-year-old Jack to bed before 9:30 p.m. When the stars align, Jack goes to bed right around the same time Max starts his biggest sleep and I can crash with them. When things are bad, however, Max sleeps from about 8 p.m. until five minutes after I get back downstairs from putting Jack to bed, then wants to stay up until 11:30 and then wake up again around 1:30.

The good news is I’m catching up on all the shows I recorded the first 10 days of Max’s life when I was hardly home at all and certainly didn’t have time to watch TV.