House of Tiny Brains

Nitwit parents and horrible toddlers collide in “House of Tiny Terrors,” The Learning Channel’s newest addition to the reality TV cesspool.

By Mary Beth Crain

TLC, home of bottom-of-the-barrel reality TV, has really hit the jackpotty this time with their newest show, “House of Tiny Terrors.” It’s “Nanny 911,” “Shalom in the Home,” and “ER” all rolled into one, as three sets of desperate parents and their unbelievable brats check into a rehab home for, well, desperate parents and unbelievable brats, run by child psychologist Dr. Tanya Byron.

The program goes like this: for six days and nights, the families live in the center, a sort of mansion/clinic described as a “purpose-built residence,” while Dr. Tanya observes everybody’s bad behavior on closed circuit TV; counsels mom and dad in the noble but sadly forgotten art of good parenting; and reins in their awful offspring whenever things really get out of hand, which is, like, every two minutes.

It’s both horrifying and hilarious—horrifying because you simply can’t believe that parents can be so stupid and pathetic, and hilarious because, once again, a Brit has to bail out those spoilt Yanks. I’m sure you all remember “Nanny 911” and “Super Nanny,” in which stern nannies were sent all the way from the U.K. to rescue American parents whose kids were totally out of control. Every week we stared in open-mouthed horror at our lax, idiotic countrymen tyrannized by their brazenly rebellious little monsters, and stared in open-mouthed admiration at these calm, no-nonsense Englishwomen who whipped their charges into shape, hut-two-three-four, in one miraculous week.

And now we have Dr. Tanya, another Brit, teaching us how to behave. It makes you wonder if the American Revolution was such a good idea after all. We might have gained life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but we sure as hell lost our sense of propriety.

To be reasonable, the English aren’t immune to the 21st century idiotic parent plague either—in fact, “House of Tiny Terrors” is based on the BBC reality show “House of Tiny Tearaways.” But it’s evident that in the U.S., anyway, that British accent has clout. Maybe it recalls the famed stiff-upper-lip fortitude that got our Limey cousins through the Blitz. Whatever the reason, it practically has American parents standing at attention and singing “God Save the Queen.” And may her loyal subjects save us!

"House of Tiny Terrors" features the Mirandas and their almost two-year-old twins, Dante and Gia; the Carlomustos and their toddler, Justin; and Renee Inniss and her hellion extraordinaire, Jagger. If you’ve ever wondered what, exactly, hell is like, just tune in. As the online promo for the show reads, “The Miranda kids cry to be picked up constantly and don’t listen. Dante hits and tackles Gia and he even hits his mom when she tries to correct him. Gia has major separation anxiety and follows Jessica wherever she goes. Meal times are a big challenge, too—both children are still drinking from a bottle and will only eat certain foods. They also throw food. Every night at bedtime, Dante and Gia cry so much that Jessica has taken to lying on the floor next to their cribs until they are asleep.

“Justin is strong willed and just laughs at his parents when they ask him to do something. He also refuses to eat at the table with his family (Cheryl often resorts to chasing him around the kitchen with a fork) and will not sit in his car seat.”

The one single mother, Renee Inniss, had the distinction of having sired the worst brat of them all, Jagger, who hit, kicked and bit her, screamed at the top of his lungs, threw everything in sight, and used his one-word vocabulary of “NO!” most effectively. In one day, Jagger was put in the dreaded Time Out Room seven times, where all he did was shriek and throw chairs around until he was let out, whereupon the kicking, hitting and biting started all over again.

The theme of last night’s episode was “discipline,” ha ha ha. As Dr. Tanya tch tched and shook her head in despair, tiny tyrants threw tremendous tantrums while mom and dad argued with each other and made half-hearted attempts to show their diminutive despots who’s boss. When yelling and scolding, followed by stupid time outs that lasted for one minute of each year of the offender’s life, had no effect (is two minutes in a crib really going to do it?), it was time for Dr. Tanya to haul in the parents for their own time out. In these humiliating therapy sessions, mothers broke down and cried while fathers looked disgusted and Dr. Tanya gently bawled them both out for acting more babyish than their toddlers.

I don’t know who in their right mind ever decided such tiresome crap makes for fascinating TV, but here we are. As a viewer, I am uncertain as to what reaction is expected of me. Am I supposed to feel sorry for these parents and the hell hole they’ve dug for themselves? Am I supposed to empathize with the plight of the overworked stay-at-home mom and workaday dad, the single mother trying to do and be everything for her child, the insecure wife trying to live up to her perfect mother-in-law? Or, am I supposed to laugh at the absurdity of adults allowing nasty infants to unravel their lives with the speed at which they take apart their playrooms? Or recoil in disgust at what the typical American family has come to?

All I know is, in my day parents were parents, kids were kids, and that was that. My dad was a brilliant chemist who emigrated to the U.S. from Vienna in 1938, with the Nazis on his heels. If he could survive growing up Jewish in Hitler’s Austria and life-threatening assignments as an intelligence agent for the U.S. Army in WWII, he sure as hell could handle his own children. As for my New York-born mom, she disciplined with love, both tender and tough.

If my twin brother and I had had the Miranda twins’ mom and dad for parents, I shudder to think where we’d be today. As it was, we got away with nothing. If we’d ever dared—DARED—to kick our mother, whack! My dad’s hand would have come down so hard on our behinds that we’d have been sitting on doughnuts for a year. When we threw a tantrum, we were deposited in our room and ignored, not for two measely minutes but until we screamed ourselves to sleep. When we opened up a mouth, we got spanked and grounded. It was that simple. By the same token, as we grew older, my parents traded scolding for reasoning, treating us like we had more than half a brain and making us take responsibility for our actions. And by the way—never for one minute did we doubt that they loved us with all their hearts.

As a result, we were well-behaved kids who, if I may say so myself, turned into successful, thoughtful, caring adults. How dull.

My brother is the proud father of a 14-year-old boy who, even though he’s in that vastly annoying stage of know-it-all teenaging, is still a sweet, good kid who knows his limits. I, on the other hand, opted for a childless life, a decision that I have never regretted, especially after watching shows like "House of Tiny Terrors."

I should admit, however, that I once lived in my own "House of Tiny Terrors," when my Chihuahua, Truman, was a willful puppy and my cats declared war on him. I struggled through about a year of learning how to discipline a bratty dog and three sullen, plotting felines, and I can report that it isn’t that much different from child rearing. Truman got time outs for bad behavior and praise for good. The cats got lots of love and reassurance and extra treats. I learned how to make “No!” mean something, and when and when not to administer kisses and cuddles. The Dog Whisperer would be very proud of me.

Speaking of which, what these families in "House of Tiny Terrors" need is a good dose of either Cesar Millan, Ward Cleaver or Judge Judy. Cesar would undoubtedly have the tiny terrors heeling in sixty seconds or less, just by staring them down and delivering his magically potent “Shhh!” Ward Cleaver would march them to their cribs and leave them to reflect upon their sins, after which he’d come in, sit down, take them in his lap and quietly explain the mystery of choice and consequence to them, ending with a kiss and a hug. As for Judge Judy, well, I can just see the Carlomustos at one end of the courtroom and three-year-old Justin at the other.

JJ: Plaintiffs, would you tell the court, in as mercifully few words as possible, why you are here?

JOE CARLOMUSTO: Yes, Your Honor. The defendant wouldn’t eat his dinner! And when his mother tried to make him, he kicked her in the shins! Then he wouldn’t get in his car seat and so we couldn’t go out for a drive!

JJ: Defendant—is this true?

JUSTIN CARLOMUSTO: WAAAAAAH!

JJ: I don’t consider that an answer, young man.

JUSTIN: I HATE YOU!

JJ: If you open up that mouth one more time, Mr. Carlomusto, I’ll charge you with contempt and you’ll spend 30 days in Time Out. Comprende?

JUSTIN: NOOOOOOOO!

CHERYL CARLOMUSTO (sobbing): You see, Your Honor? This is what it’s like! Every day of our lives!

JJ: And as for you two, you’ll speak when spoken to, or you’ll get 60 days in Time Out! Comprende?

THE CARLOMUSTOS (sheepishly): Yes, Your Honor.

JJ: Now, this is my assessment. Hellloo—anybody home? What did you two do—check your brains in the delivery room and lose the claim check? You are the stupidest, sorriest excuses for parents I have ever had the displeasure of meeting! Your kid won’t eat? Shove the food up his ass! He kicks you in the shins? Throw him in his crib with bread and water and don’t let him out til he says I’m sorry and MEANS it! He won’t use his car seat? Now let me get this straight. Justin weighs, what, 30 pounds?

CHERYL CARLOMUSTO: 32, Your Honor.

JJ: And you weigh?

CHERYL CARLOMUSTO: I take the fifth.

JJ: Well, let’s just say you’re bigger than a breadbox but smaller than Mario Batali. And you can’t put a 32 pound brat into his car seat? You know, I don’t blame the kid. I’d push your buttons for all they’re worth too if you were my parents. In fact, I’m ruling in the defendant’s favor. Justin Carlomusto, I award you damages in the amount of a year’s supply of the candy of your choice, and the privilege of kicking your dimwit parents in the shins, or anywhere else you deem appropriate, until they finally figure out how to make you into a mensch! Next case!

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Senior editor Mary Beth Crain’s last piece for SoMA was Oh Gee, O.J.

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