There is some hope, mostly amongst April and Rory, that Willa will be one of those genius babies that go straight from babbling to talking in full sentences and solving complex algebraic equations. Jess doesn't really know how he feels about the possibility of his daughter being good at math.
"If it floats your boat, I mean, great," Jess tells her. "Just, I would prefer you pick something I can help you with."
"Bleegah," Willa says.
"Huh," Jess replies thoughtfully, and hands her another tiny bit of sandwich. Willa smooshes it in one of her hands before eating it; a required step in the lunch process. "No, probably not science either. I liked the theory stuff, but science is just dressed up math, you know."
"Pah," Willa says. "Shanahwah."
"No, please don't pick history either," Jess says. "Do you know what history majors actually do? It looks all glamorous in the movies but trust me, ninety percent of your day is reading hotel ledgers and tax returns and dental records and shit."
"Ga da da dah?" Willa asks, reaching out one of her hands. Jess gives her another piece of sandwich. "Bab bab bab."
"Bad, right," Jess says, and catches her bottle before it rolls off the dinner tray. "History, math, bad. Pick a creative industry."
"Ahhhh," Willa says. "Bleegah."
"Well, music, sure. That works."
"Ga da da dah?"
"I mean, obviously I hope you'll like writing, but I'm not gonna be one of those stage parents," Jess says. Willa tilts her head at him, picking up her bottle and holding it out in his direction. "Nah, I'm not thirsty."
"Ga da da daaah."
"I dunno, maybe it is genetic. You should ask April about that, she'd probably know. If it is, you're set to be the next Virginia Woolf, I'll tell you what, baby." Willa waves her bottle at him, sending a spray of apple juice across the floor, and Jess winces. "Right, bad example. Jane Austen? Emily Dickinson?"
"Bleegah!" Willa says.
"Emily's brilliant, yeah," Jess says. "Here, try some more of this."
Willa smooshes another sandwich bit and crams it into her mouth. Her cheeks are bulging; Jess suspects she's been storing up for winter.
"You know Grandma wanted me to be a musician," Jess tells her. "She bought me a guitar like, every Christmas. I never learned how to play, though. I used to pawn them for cigarette money." He pauses. "Please don't ever do that."
"Da da?"
"Present," Jess says. Willa points her bottle at him. "Yes ma'am, yes. That's me."
"Da da da," Willa says, cajoling, and Jess leans forward. Willa grabs his nose and whacks him in the cheek with the bottle. "Bleegah!"
"Christ," Jess exclaims, and untangles her fist from his hair as gently as he can. "Okay, fine! Be an accountant, if that's what you really want."
"Da daah," Willa says, "dada dada!"
"Of course you'd be good at anything, you're clearly very underestimated by your contemporaries," Jess says placatingly. He reaches out and touches her little cheek, giving her the option to pull away, but Willa latches onto his hand with her free one and starts slobbering all over it. In a fond, loving way, Jess thinks. Well, he's pretty sure. "Just promise me one thing, okay," he says, "please, please, please don't ever run away to join the Renaissance Faire."
"Dadadadada," Willa reassures him, "gaah bleegah."
"Thanks," Jess says. "I appreciate you saying that."
"Bleegah," Willa says decisively, and throws her bottle on the ground.
"We gotta work on the manners though," Jess says, and hands her another piece of sandwich.