If preschool Valentines are any measure of a mother’s performance (which they are around here), then I’m in much better shape this year than I was the morning of my first Cupid competition.

Three years ago, I was a sleep-deprived, hormonally whacked-out mom (like I am today) who had enrolled two-year-old David in a co-op preschool, which means moms take turns refilling glue bottles, bleaching down toys, and changing diapers (as if the poop of your own darling isn’t enough to disgust and overwhelm). Before strapping three-month-old Katherine into her car seat along with her brother, I frantically cut out eight hearts (one for each kid in his class) from my stack of scrap paper. With a pink highlighter, I quickly scribbled on them “Happy Valentine’s Day! From David.”

Then I got there and realized moms had been preparing for months to exhibit their talents in this Martha Stewart showdown. One woman had neatly stenciled “I dig you,” in white paint on miniature red plastic shovels. With shiny red, white, and pink ribbon, she attached them to a bag of homemade treats and a handsome Valentine from her daughter.

I dispersed my sorry-looking hearts into the bags of David’s friends.

“I didn’t know you were a religion major,” one of the moms said to me a few minutes later. How did she find out? My resume was on the other side of David’s Valentines. Oops. Note to self: when recycling paper, check the back.