My mom had won a couple of tickets from work to go to the amusement park that was only an hour away from where we live, so we decided to make a mother-daughter day of it, getting up bright and early to get in the car so we could get to the park early to beat the lines.
We always loved road trips, even the small ones. We made a playlist that we could rock out to while we drove, and listened to all the classics, such as "Friday" by Rebecca Black, "Stupid Hoe" by Nicki Minaj, and "The Fox" by Ylvis, and by the time we got to the amusement park we were pumped up and ready to enjoy some rides. Little did I know that the only one who would feel like a Stupid Hoe that day would be me.
Once we were inside the empty park, I immediately dragged my mom over to my favorite ride, the smell of greasy, overpriced hot dogs just starting to waft through the air. The coaster was tall and wooden, and it had made me cry every single time I was on it since I was 12, so you knew it was good.
I was so excited to go on the coaster, but I was shocked to hear the employee working the line tell my mother something that would change my life.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you must be at least 4’11” to ride the ride,” he said to her in a sad tone, holding his hand out to her to usher her away from the line.
My mom sighed and shook her head, but stepped back and gestured for me to go on ahead without her.
So I did, and I rode it six times before I started to think about what had happened.
My mom was much taller 4’11,” I figured, but as I thought about it, I didn’t think that I had ever really seen her without heels on. Tall heels. In retrospect, I should have wondered why she wore heels while lounging around the house in her pajamas. The only reason she didn’t wear them today was because we would be doing a lot of walking.
When I got off the ride, I immediately walked over to my mother, who was waiting on a bench and eating a corn dog the size of her head. I asked her how tall she was, confused, and she told me that she was 4’10” with very little hesitation.
“But mom,” I began, furrowing my brows in confusion and frustration, “that’s the same height as Academy Award-nominated actor Danny DeVito.”
My mother let out a grave sigh, looking away from me, and ate the rest of her corn dog in one bite.
That’s when she told me.
My mother was actually Danny DeVito.
She peeled off the impressive layer of prosthetics and makeup to reveal that she was, in fact, the actor/producer/director.
She — or he, I suppose — sat me down and explained to me that he was, in fact, my mother. He carried me for nine months, and then gave birth to me just like any other man would. He worried, he told me, that no one would accept him as the hard-working single mother he was if he didn’t assume the role of a woman.
It made sense, and I felt silly for not having realized sooner. The heels, the business trips timed with the shooting dates for Danny DeVito’s various work, Charlie Day being my godfather. I was never allowed to watch "Hercules" when I was younger, and when I was old enough to learn how to watch it in secret, I found the satyr Philoctetes’s voice to be incredibly soothing. I know now that it was because it was my mother’s voice.
Of course I couldn’t be angry. We both cried, happy that this secret was no more, and we held each other on the bench near the entrance of the coaster. I felt closer to him.
He promised that our next mother-daughter road trip will be to Hollywood, to his next red carpet event, so he could show off what a wonderful daughter he had, and that he would introduce me to the members of One Direction since he claimed to be “tight” with them after filming the "Steal Your Girl" music video.
I have the best mom in the world, and I wouldn’t change him for anything.
