There’s something magical about the way motherhood unfolds in perfect little circles, like the rings of a tree that mark time’s passage. Just when you think you’ve graduated from one stage, life has a way of bringing you right back to the beginning—but with the wisdom to appreciate it more.

Remember those first gifts from our children? The slightly wilted dandelion, clutched in a tiny fist, presented with eyes shining with pride. The “special” rock discovered on a neighborhood walk that simply had to come home with you. The perfect feather, rescued from the yard and delivered as if it were spun from gold.

These natural treasures, these priceless offerings that cost nothing but meant everything, were the currency of a child’s love. As mothers, we tucked these moments away in our hearts.

And then, of course, there was the macaroni art phase. Is there an unwritten rule that every elementary school teacher must exhaust the pasta aisle for the sake of children’s art projects? Between my three sons, I amassed a collection of Christmas ornaments made from glued pasta and dried beans that would make an Italian grandmother weep. After a couple decades, I finally parted ways with them when:

1. My three sons had grown into men with families of their own
2. The mice in our garage attic had started viewing our holiday decorations as an all-you-can-eat buffet

This Mother’s Day, I had casually mentioned that my blender was on its last legs. A subtle hint that perhaps a new one might make a lovely gift. What I received instead from my three grown sons was something I never could have anticipated—a competitive macaroni art contest.

Yes. Grown men. With pasta. And glue.

Each had created his own masterpiece on canvas, with their wives and children as witnesses. My assignment as mother? To award first, second, and third place ribbons to my adult children’s macaroni creations, without knowing which canvas was whose.