My lactating boobs are out-of-control big. Actually, big is just not enough of a word for ’em.

They were BIG when I was pregnant (see The Top Ten Sucky Things About Being Pregnant.) Actually, they were more HUGE than BIG.

But since I’ve started producing milk, these things have entered a whole new stratosphere.

Now they’re more in the range of gargantuan.

They need their own zip code.

My mammaries are now, without exception, too large to fit into any bra in existence.

Trust me. I have scoured the internet.

No. Bra. In. Existence.

I’ve ordered and tried on every single one I thought might come close to containing these whoppers. Nary a one actually fit properly.

But a couple of them were an inch or so too big in the band and slightly too small in the cup, so I’m using those out of desperation. Short of trying to make my own undergarment out of a couple of big-girl girdles and some industrial strength, space-age elastic, they’re all I’ve got.

If you’re rolling your eyes right now and saying to yourself, “Stop bragging, Beeyotch,” let me assure you — I am not boasting about these things.

These things are way too big to be considered sexy or attractive.

Or even containable.

They’re just plain too much.

Even my husband — a self-professed boob man who heretofore thought there was no such thing as too-big boobs — even he says they’re too much.

Without fail, if he walks into a room while I’m changing clothes and gets a gander at them, he says “GOOD LORD!”

Every single time.

Even my 4-year-old is impressed by them.

Seemingly getting in early practice for his future Mardi Gras escapades, he says, “Let me see your boobies” almost every day.

And I can’t help but allow him to see them. Because they’re out constantly while I pump.

He looks at one boob and says, “WOW! Your boobie’s really big. Let me see the other boobie.”

Whereupon he just shifts his gaze to the other one. “WOW! Your other boobie’s really big too.”

This past Sunday, it was my NICU baby’s turn to get a load of them for the first time.

Whatever doc was on staff that day decided we should try to breast feed.

Keep in mind that Meyer is only 5 lbs, which is about what I’m guessing each one of my boobs weighs right now.

I shoved the nipple in his mouth and he opened his precious little eyes to behold a mountain of a breast that was at least twice the size of his own little head.

He looked bewildered and confused.

And kinda scared.

He knit his eyebrows together and laid there in my arms darting his eyes all over the place like, “What the hell? Is this thing going to eat me?”

I spent the entire 20 minutes we were trying to nurse absolutely belly laughing at the expression on his darling little confused face.

Meyer’s almost 37 weeks gestation now. If things had gone perfectly, he’d still be in my belly.

Instead, he’s already been traumatized by my boobies.

I feel pretty certain that, given what they’ve had to deal with as infants, my boys will have extreme views on racks. They’ll either love ’em real, real big. Or they’ll prefer them as flat as they come.

Or maybe not.

Maybe they’ll go for something in between.

I know I would.