When I was little, I had a fascination with eggs. I remember the ones in Korea used to be pretty big, bigger-than-average sort of big. They were light brown in color and usually stored on the top left shelf in our fridge. When my mom wasn’t looking, I would smuggle an egg from the fridge and sneak it into my room. I would examine the egg, counting how many spots dotted the shell and pinpointing any color disparities. I thought of myself as an egg-scientist. If an egg felt smooth and had little imperfections, I would deem it perfect and put it aside, so my mom wouldn’t cook it. If an egg was covered in little bumps and sprinkled with little dots, I would make sure my mom cooked it first.
I also thought I was a chicken and believed I could raise an egg and hatch it. So, on occasion, I would lightly sit on the egg and wrap it in warm blankets hoping to see a little baby chick emerge. Being an only child with two working parents, I desperately craved for something to call my own, and with both my parents unaccepting of pets in the house, I thought, “This is it. This is perfect. I can hatch my own egg and raise a chicken.” Clearly, I did not consider the future repercussions raising a chicken would bring; I only had the image of a fuzzy little chick in my mind as I proceeded to nest.
This continued for a few days until my mom noticed an egg missing and would snoop around in my room until she discovered my secret. My mom tried so hard to enlighten my five-year-old self that I could not raise an egg and that the eggs we bought were incapable of hatching. Being the disobedient, ruffian child I was, I disregarded my mom and went right back to smuggling eggs into my room.