My youngest child picked up this egg one of our chickens laid and we discovered it was bigger than her fist.
Bigger than her fist.
Eden looked at this egg that barely fit in her hand and quietly whispered, “Ouch!”
When an almost seven year old is overcome with sympathy for the birthing pains of a chicken, you know it is an enormous egg.
Then when your eleven year old daughter says, “Ooof, just looking at that egg makes my hips hurt!” You know you have a gigantic egg.
When you try to put the egg into an egg carton and it doesn’t fit, not one little bit, you know you have a humongous egg.
Then, as you see and feel the ridge around the center of the egg, where the poor chicken had to pause and use an extra push to get her egg out, you know that you have a colossally gargantuan egg.
Finally, when your manly, burly plumber of a husband begs like a little schoolboy to take the egg to work, so that he can show it off to his manly, burly co-workers, you know you have an astronomically behemoth egg.
The next day when you get a second enormous, gigantic, humongous, colossally gargantuan, and astronomically behemoth egg, you quietly inspect each hens’ lady parts to see if they need stitches.
They don’t. Which is nothing short of miraculous.
Then you go back into the house and make omelets for dinner because some lady is working overtime out in the coop.