Meatballs and a question

At what age do you get to stop managing -by which I mean literally bathing, helping dress, overseeing toothbrushing, reading stories, tucking in- bedtime for your kids? Because I am most definitely at the point of being largely uninterested in the process. In aggregate, I've done about 4,380 nights of this over the past years, and while I love, love to snuggle and kiss my boys, I am sick, sick of some of the other biz. In all honesty, when does this part of raising kiddos become more their responsibility than yours? Today was like a best-case marathon: it's not too cold, not too hot; you aren't sidelined by muscle spasms or chafing; your pace is strong; no one around you is a dick. Yet at the end, you are wiped out. Fried. Spent. Beat. Blur story short, we saw family, took several walks and bike rides, I made one million meatballs, we watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, and finally, praise the goddess of tired mamas, the boys are in bed as of 2 seconds back.

Oliver had a ginormous meltdown about his bath. "I want to have a HAND BATH!! A HAND BATH!! Not a tub bath!"

What, pray tell, is a hand bath?

Apparently, it is a bath given via washcloth whilst standing outside of the tub on a mat. I told him he best figure out how to do it by himself or ask Dad.

Jack had a lunatic fit about the fact that I asked him, after waiting patiently for five minutes, if he was ready to walk to CVS. Ol and I decided to make the short trip without pouting J.

At this point, by which I mean right now, I am enjoying a generous second glass of wine, watching T cook the fresh pasta (aah, fresh linguine!), and eagerly anticipating the best meatballs

PS- Was anyone else completely overwhelmed by the Black Friday sale promotion going on today?  Aah. All the ads felt like The Blob was approaching...