Godzilla's Gusset: A Weekend of Meltdowns and Mom-Level Engineering

It started with a meme and ended with me performing emergency surgery on Godzilla’s crotch using a pair of dirty black leggings.

In between those two moments were half-spilled cider, questionable parenting decisions, a busted dishwasher, and enough fall family activities to qualify as a seasonal endurance sport.

The Cider Mill That Never Was

On Thursday night, we had a plan — an ambitious, delusional plan.

We were going to go to the cider mill on Friday evening.After work. After school. After Bennett’s pumpkin-carving party. After Kora’s candy-fueled day with Grandma.

Oh, and Brandon was going to stop at Menards on the way home.

So yes, we genuinely believed that after all that… we’d just casually head out for cider and smiles.

Abso-f***ing-lutely not.

By 5:00 p.m. Friday, our collective energy was somewhere between “feral raccoon” and “flatlined Roomba.”

New plan: Saturday morning after ninja class.Still a stretch, but at least achievable.

I left the house with Benny, and Brandon and Kora had one job: be ready and waiting when we returned.

Fun fact — they actually were. Glorious.

And honestly? The new plan slapped. We hit the cider mill and pumpkin patch before noon — no crowds, no waiting, no sugar crashes. Just fresh donuts, open port-a-potties, and pumpkins galore.

Donuts, Deathtraps, and Restored Faith in Humanity

Step one: donuts and cider, because parenting strategy 101 is snack first, logic later.

A dozen donuts and a gallon of cider for $23 — deal of the century.

We promptly spilled half the cider on the farmhouse tablecloth, but whatever. Sticky fingers, happy hearts.

Then we hit the jumping pillow, a giant inflatable lawsuit where all rules are ignored simultaneously.

No shoes! Read as, “Shoes are totally optional.”

No flips! Read as, “Definitely do somersaults until you puke.”

No adults! Wait, who’s that really tall kid? Nevermind. Just don’t double-bounce the toddlers into the sand pit.

But amid the chaos, my kids were helpers.

They pulled toppled toddlers back to their feet like tiny first responders, and they weren’t alone. Other kids were doing it too.

For one fleeting moment, surrounded by airborne preschoolers and cider fumes, I thought, maybe humanity’s not totally doomed.

Eventually, we bribed them away from the bounce zone because the pumpkin patch awaited.

The Pumpkin Patch Strategy

We drove to the other side of the farm.

Why?

1. Water was in the car.

2. The attractions in between were traps designed by Satan.

3. We are not sherpas.

At the patch, the kids picked the ugliest pumpkins they could find, and I couldn’t have been prouder.

We met Spookley the Square Pumpkin, a lumpy yellow mutant, a flat red-orange pancake pumpkin, a green one that looked like a watermelon, and my own pale-orange behemoth that appeared slightly nauseous.

Mission accomplished.

The Meme Wars

By Saturday night, the kids were sticky and exhausted, and my husband and I returned to our favorite love language: sending memes instead of starting fights.

He sent me Mel Gibson saying,

“Every day I wake up and think of a reason not to do it. Every single day.”

Caption: “That small task my wife has been asking me to do for weeks.”

I responded with a cat trying (and failing) to use a drill:

Caption: “My wife attempting the project I didn’t finish by her timeline.”

It was deeply accurate.

It was also therapeutic.

By the time we actually talked about the to-do lists — mine, his, the overlapping ones we pretend don’t exist — we were laughing. The humor disarmed us. Once again, the memes turned tension into teamwork. Good job, internet.

The Dirty Leggings of Glory

Sunday brought a new challenge: Costume Crisis 2025.

Kora’s Elsa dress was too long, but she refused help because “Elsa’s real dress is also long.” 

Bennett’s Godzilla suit was so tight it looked like a reptilian corset.

So I did what had to be done. I turned to the internet once again, learned how to sew a gusset, and when I couldn’t find matching fabric…I cut up a pair of black leggings.

Were they clean? No. Straight out of the dirty clothes basket, actually.

Did they match Godzilla’s scales? Also no.

Did they restore the dignity of a lizard in distress? Absolutely yes.

I added cuffs, detached the feet, sewed them back as boot covers, and stood there like a woman who had just conquered both motherhood and fashion design in one afternoon.

The Trunk-or-Treat That Broke Me (But in a Cute Way)

And because I apparently have no concept of “enough,” I decided we should also go to the church trunk-or-treat that evening.

Why? Because my extended family has been running that show for decades — and I knew my cousin would be there with her kids, which meant cousin playtime (aka ten minutes of peace). 

So off we went — costumes on, energy reserves nonexistent.

It was fun, chaotic, and predictably sticky. But as we tried to leave, everything fell apart. Literally.

Pieces everywhere: crowns, braids, shoe covers, candy wrappers, rogue pencils, and I was eating candy directly out of my kids’ baskets because I had earned it.

My cousin looked at me and said, “I’m so glad I’m not the only one.”

I replied, “Is there maybe a rake I could step on and just let it smack me in the forehead? Because that would be so fitting right now.”

We laughed, half delirious, half feral — and it was perfect.

The Dishwasher Dénouement

And just when I thought I’d reached the end of my emotional growth for the weekend…the dishwasher broke. Again.

Because apparently, balance requires that if the costumes fit and the pumpkins don’t rot, something else must die in the process.

At this point, I’m considering just hosing the dishes off in the driveway and calling it rustic minimalism.

The Revelation

Somewhere between the spilled cider, the meme banter, the dirty leggings, and the dishwasher debacle, I realized: This is the point.

The laughter. The teamwork. The exhaustion wrapped in gratitude.

Real life isn’t perfect.

It’s patchy, sticky, frayed at the seams, and funny as hell if you let it be.

---

Mini-Message:

Humor doesn’t mean you’re not taking life seriously — it means you’re emotionally intelligent enough to survive it. Every meme, mishap, and monster lunge is proof we should be putting connection > perfection.

Munchies:

Warm apple slices + cinnamon Greek yogurt dip.

Sweet, simple, and sticky — just like the weekend. Slice apples, warm for 30 seconds, mix yogurt with cinnamon and honey, and enjoy with full sensory awareness (and zero guilt). Sometimes self-care smells like baked fruit and tastes like relief.

Movement Exercise:

Let’s talk Godzilla Lunges — a new MoveMaker original, courtesy of my son.

Start in a dramatic stance, knees bent, tiny T-rex arms out front.

Step forward slowly (like, really slowly) while roaring with full commitment.

Bonus points if your roar scares the dog or disarms the neighbors.

Repeat 8 times per leg, or until you dissolve into laughter.

Functional fitness meets family improv. (You're welcome.)

Music Reco:

“High Hopes” by Panic! At The Disco — hope disguised as caffeine.

Because honestly, that’s what this whole weekend was: running on fumes, faith, and fall-flavored sugar. It’s the perfect anthem for anyone who’s ever tried to hold it all together with equal parts laughter and caffeine. Crank it up while you’re cleaning spilled cider off the counter or sewing Godzilla’s gusset — it’s impossible not to feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re nailing this whole life thing after all.

Mind-Bender:

What if the mess is the mindfulness?

What if peace isn’t found in the quiet, but in the clatter — the laugh that escapes when everything’s going wrong and somehow still feels right?

Maybe “balance” was never meant to equal stillness. Maybe it’s motion, meaning, and meltdown, all happening in rhythm. That’s not losing control. That’s living awake.

—

Snack-sized sentiments, full-sized feelings. Follow @MoveMakerMedia for more everyday chaos and emotional clarity.