The World’s Oldest Toddler

Why the “Strongman” President is Actually America’s Biggest Snowflake

I was born at the tail end of Generation X. Well, more technically, I’m part of a microgeneration called “Xennials,” those of us born between 1978 and 1982 who know how to use both the internet and a rotary phone. We grew up straddling two eras, living analog childhoods before digital took over. We got to roam the streets unsupervised until the streetlights came on, rode our bikes without helmets, and understood the primal terror of a VHS tape jamming in the VCR. We lived through the era of “Just Say No,” feared the mythical stranger in the van with free candy, and carefully inspected our Halloween treats for the ever-looming threat of hidden razor blades (though, fun fact, there’s never been a confirmed case of this actually happening).

Why am I sharing all of this? Because Generation X and Xennials are a tough, self-reliant bunch. We weren’t coddled by helicopter parents. We sat in the backseat without seatbelts because, well, those were considered optional, and we drank from garden hoses, not hydroflasks. We learned early that life isn’t fair, and whining got you nowhere. When Ralphie shot his eye out with his Red Ryder BB gun in A Christmas Story, we didn’t blame the BB gun – we blamed Ralphie.

Which brings me to this:

I never thought I’d see the day when the leader of the free world would so consistently sound like a 78-year-old toddler, perpetually aggrieved, forever the victim, always a snowflake. I genuinely never expected that not only would we elect such an unqualified person to the highest office, but that we’d put someone so chronically fragile and thin-skinned in charge of the nuclear codes. A man who has the power to shape the destiny of the world, yet spends his days on social media crying about how unfairly he’s treated. He’s the most powerful person on the planet, yet somehow always the victim.

It’s exhausting. For the last several years, Americans have watched this sideshow with a mix of shock, anger, and embarrassment. Trump, the self-styled alpha male, is in reality the weakest kind of leader – a man for whom every slight is a mortal wound, every criticism an unforgivable sin. He lashes out at late-night comedians, retired generals, Gold Star families, and 17-year-old climate activists. He whines about TV ratings, magazine covers, and polls that don’t sufficiently stroke his ego. If there’s one thing he’s consistent about, it’s his ability to make every minor inconvenience or critique about himself – a truly remarkable feat for a man who claimed he would restore American strength and resolve.

Think about it: every time Trump gets criticized, his first instinct isn’t to reflect, adapt, or push forward. It’s to whine. To blame. To find someone else to point the finger at. He’s the kid in the group project who insists he did all the work, even though everyone knows he didn’t. He’s the guy who shows up to a pickup basketball game, gets lightly bumped, and demands a foul – every single time.

I’m not saying a president has to be a stoic, stone-faced statue. I’m saying that in a country that prizes resilience, we ended up with a president who embodies its exact opposite. For someone who claims to be a fighter, he sure spends a lot of time throwing pity parties for himself.

To the young people who just started paying attention to politics within the last decade: don’t let this define the future. Our country is made of rugged, resilient people, not grown miserable toddlers.