Notes From Jen: Mary Had a Little Lamb

Three Generations, One Song, and the Gift of Opportunity

By Jen Paul Schroer

Aviva is six years old and learning to play the piano.
Her first song is “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

As I listen to her carefully work through the notes on her keyboard, I’m pulled backward in time to a summer afternoon of my own childhood. I was about her age when my grandmother taught me the same song. I remember her hands most—aged, steady, adorned with rings—pressing the keys confidently and with ease. There was nothing tentative about the way she played. The music lived in her.

My grandmother was an exceptional pianist. She was accepted into Juilliard, a fact that still stops me when I say it out loud. But she turned it down. In her mind, she was pursuing what was often called a “Mrs. degree”—not out of frivolity, but out of responsibility.

You see, by the time she was fifteen, her sister, brother, and father had all died. The weight of survival fell squarely on her shoulders. She was expected to marry to bring economic stability for herself and her mother. It was simply how things worked then. Women had limited options, and talent—even extraordinary talent—often bowed to duty.

When I look at my daughter now, the contrast is striking.

The responsibilities I expect of my children are worlds apart from what was expected of my grandmother. By the time she reached college, she had lived through the Great Depression, two world wars, and the Spanish flu—events that demanded resilience far beyond childhood. Today, homework, after-school activities, and piano practice define early responsibilities. Childhood is less shaped by economic survival than it once was, and for that, I am deeply grateful.

We live in a time—and in a state—where safety systems exist to support families who need them. Public education, free school meals, and community programs provide a baseline of stability that previous generations could only dream of. Especially in the face of federal uncertainty, I am proud that our state and community continue to hold on to these commitments. They matter. They change lives. They create room for children to simply be children. And still, there is more work to do, as too many children in our own communities continue to face hardship.

We try to talk to our kids about this—not to burden them, but to help them understand that access to education, food, and stability is not universal. Around the world—and even in New Mexico—many children live in poverty, and we have a deep responsibility to give back to our community. As parents, we want our children to value what they have, not take it for granted, and to take their responsibilities seriously in return.

For Aviva, this comes naturally.

She takes school seriously. She asks for feedback. She asks for more worksheets so she can practice. After piano class, she returns to her keyboard, repeating the drills until they become music. She talks excitedly about performing at her school’s Christmas program—not for recognition, but because she wants people to enjoy the music. She wants to make others feel good.

In that way, she is so much like my grandmother.

Both of them love people. Conversation. Dancing. Parties. Performing. They share the gift of hospitality—the instinct to make others feel welcome and cared for. My grandmother was famous for playing piano at gatherings. She would tie her glasses tightly to her head with a scarf to keep them from slipping as she pounded the keys with joy and abandon. Music was how she brought people together.

As Aviva practices “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” I find myself wondering what paths I can help keep open for her. Could I help create a world where, if she wanted to go to Juilliard, she could? Where talent doesn’t have to yield to survival? Where responsibility does not require the surrender of who God has made her to be. Parenting, I’m learning, is less about directing a life and more about shepherding a soul.

As my grandmother’s life unfolded, she married her college sweetheart and started a family—four sons and, eventually, eight grandchildren. She was loving and generous, giving endlessly to those around her. Whether her greatest dream was music or family, she lived it with intention. And while she never shared her talent with the world, she shared it fully with family and friends, bringing joy wherever she went.

That legacy matters too.

As the musical notes drift through our home—simple, familiar, timeless—I hope my daughter can honor her great-grandmother’s memory in her own way. By loving people. By sharing her gifts. And by knowing that the choices available to her were made possible by the sacrifices of those who came before.

And maybe, someday, she’ll teach “Mary Had a Little Lamb” to a child of her own—hands steady on the keys, rings passed down through generations, music living in her fingers.

Jen Paul Schroer is a dedicated community leader with a proven track record of driving positive change. As a three-time Senate-confirmed cabinet secretary, trade association CEO, and chamber of commerce executive director, Jen has extensive experience in both the public and private sectors. As a wife and mother of two, Jen is deeply committed to improving the local community and supporting the economic well-being of families as the editor and owner of Tumbleweeds Magazine and other ventures.