I found out I was going to be a grandfather to two additional granddaughters in the fall. I was fully aware of twins, but the granddaughter portion came out during the birthday party.

This is the birthday party of the granddaughter who opted to sell her birthday for future naming rights so her uncle and now aunt could get married on the same weekend. She didn’t sign the contract willingly, obviously, but at one year old your legal options are limited.

Our granddaughter Ellie was also involved in the reveal. After interviews with the attendees—each one asked to guess the genders of the twins and which baby would arrive first—my wife and I both went with one of each. I said boy first. My wife said girl first. Most of the other guesses were also one of each, with the arrival order treated as an afterthought.

When the boxes came out, they were labeled “Baby A” and “Baby B,” which sounds less like children and more like a pharmaceutical trial. I did a little research afterward. Doctors can actually tell which baby will come first, and those are the same designations they use. Ellie was held by her dad in one arm, with the Baby A box in the other. When the lid came off, Ellie grabbed a stuffed pink bunny from the bottom. Baby A: female.

Dad and mom had to distract Ellie from what had instantly become her favorite possession so her hands were free for the next box. The Baby B box was preceded by a few tears, which turned into another stuffed animal. I remember a toy that was definitely not blue—pinks and pastels throughout. My daughter tried to convince me it was definitely pink. Family memory is a generous system: it lets everyone be certain and still somehow disagree. Baby B also equaled female.

Gifts followed the reveal. Very much baby stuff. The largest theme was “she loves to play in the water,” so Ellie got a water station, floaties, and a few swimsuits. She had mastered the gift bag immediately—pull out the tissue paper, keep reaching until the bag surrenders. Wrapped gifts were harder. Her mom would start a tear in the wrapping paper, and Ellie would aggressively remove roughly seven percent of it before deciding mom could handle the rest.

The cake came last, which felt right. She timidly dug in at first, like she was unsure whether smashing dessert with both hands was socially acceptable. But once she realized nobody was stopping her, she turned into a tiny wrecking ball with frosting. Chunks were flying off the highchair. It was one of those proud grandparent moments.

The guest list leaned more heavily toward the groom’s side, though the bride’s parents had met Ellie a few weeks before and loved her immediately. Wedding logistics—flowers, a bridesmaid luncheon, the general chaos of a wedding weekend—meant the birthday party got wedged in wherever there was room. Ellie wasn’t old enough to know she was being cheated, which was convenient for everyone.

And it wasn’t even entirely her time. She had to start sharing the spotlight with her future sisters—a cruel introduction to life as the older sibling, but she’ll be better for it, and she’ll have two smaller people nearby who make excellent scapegoats.

One attendee summed up his relationship with babies honestly: “She is more durable now. I am not as reluctant to handle her.” He quickly added that the twins would be outside his comfort zone for at least a year after they’re born.

The gender reveal is worth putting on a calendar. Three granddaughters by fall, two of them already the proud owners of stuffed animals they won’t appreciate for another year. Grandpa shows up regardless of the developmental stage, the fragility level, or the noise output.

Ellie starts sharing the spotlight in the fall. She’ll figure out the scapegoat situation on her own. She seems sharp.