The Best Parent Ever is better than you because their child is in the 95th percentile.  “The 95th percentile of what?” you ask.  Whatever the pediatrician says!  Height?  Weight?  Intelligence?  Body hair?  It doesn’t matter.  Just as long as their child is at the top.

This is because, for the Best Parent Ever, Pediatric Growth Charts are a competitive sport.  They are the highly-anticipated weekly box scores or quarterly results that let the Best Parent Ever know just how much better they and their brood are than everyone else.

Of course, “medical care” is not what it used to be, and sometimes measurements are “misinterpreted,” the way unreported income or backdated stock options are sometimes “misunderstood.”  But the Best Parent Ever is prepared.  Pediatric scales are “never” calibrated correctly.  Tape measures often have “misprints.”  And, when all else fails, the HMOs are to blame — even if the Best Parent Ever has never even belonged to an HMO.  “That’s the problem with this country!” proclaims the Best Parent Ever, without further explanation.

Why all the fuss?  Because, for the Best Parent Ever, the Pediatric Growth Chart is one of their child’s first official documents in a lifelong Scripture of Betterness.  It is the preamble to a paper trail coursing through over-inflated report cards, Ivy League legacy diplomas, inexplicably-bloated stock porfolio ledgers, and, finally, a glowing obituary of at least a half page or more in the New York Times or Washington Post.

So take that, underweight loser child, who is only in the 80th percentile.  You are doomed for a lifetime of underachievement and failure.  You’ll be lucky if your obituary rates a few lines in the Pennysaver, which, by the way, the Best Parent Ever NEVER reads.  You’d know that too if your child was in the 95th percentile.

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The Best Parent Ever is better than you because they breastfeed. Well, not only do they breastfeed, but they scorn anyone who doesn’t breastfeed, and greet the mere mention of infant formula with the same revulsion reserved for genocidal maniacs and serial killers.

The truth is: everyone knows by now that breastfeeding is one of the best things a mother can do for their child. But infant formula is not rat poison. It is a lesser source of infant nutrition, yes, but it is not a game-ender. A good chunk of North America grew up exclusively on infant formula, and most of us didn’t turn out so bad… well, except for global warming and a world financial meltdown or two.

Do not tell this to the Best Parent Ever, though. Other than the Sun crashing into the Earth and killing us all, failing to breastfeed one’s child until they are well on their way to grammar school is perhaps the greatest crisis confronting the Best Parent.

So take that, milk-drained mom who just needs a break for one night! You can either pull out the leche luggers one more time, or let your child suffer a Similac-induced life of failure and futility. The “choice” is yours… Formula? Or Best Parent Ever.

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The Best Parent Ever is better than you because they have a flatter stomach. It’s that simple. This is because the Best Parent Ever’s skin is like flesh-colored spandex, magically snapping back into place after being stretched outward several feet by a kicking, punching fetal Sumo or two. And cosmetic surgery had NOTHING whatsoever to do with it.

Unless you understand the secret Best Parent Ever Code. For instance, if you ask a Best Parent how they obtained such a flat stomach just a few months after birth, they will respond in one of several ways…

“I guess I just have good genes.” Translation: “Good genes that respond well to the medical sutures required in a Tummy Tuck.”

“I had to work-out really hard.” Translation: “I had to work out really hard convincing my health insurance to pay for a hernia operation, that was really just a Tummy Tuck.”

“My C-Section went incredibly well.” Translation: “My C-Section went so well, I had a second one a few months after birth. It was called a Tummy Tuck.”

So take that, Flabby Abby, whose life-giving womb is now a waistline-resistant, flesh-slide of belly blubber. The Best Parent Ever is comfortably squeezing into her size 2 jeans again, while looking at your belly and saying, “Congratulations! When is the next child due? Oh, you’re not pregnant? Whoops…”

Translation: “I’m sooo better than you!”

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