I am one of those women who men will always laugh at come Pesach cleaning time. I start cleaning the day after Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan, and I�m still finishing up as my husband makes his bedikas chometz rounds. I scrub every square inch of floor, ceiling, wall and counter until I�ve peeled off a layer of its surface along with any stubborn molecule of chometz, both visible and invisible.

I move every moveable and not-so-moveable appliance and piece of furniture and attack the area behind it with a vengeance that frightens the hardiest of onlookers. Every sock, every paper clip and every toothpick gets scrubbed down with soap, water and my magic cleanser. Don�t even get me started on the toys. You get the picture; I�m one of those.

I get mocked and I get hocked, mostly by the male population, but still I staunchly stick to my Pesach cleaning rituals and take great pride in my work. I keep a collection of some of my more interesting finds, exotic specimens discovered in the most unlikely places. These I show to any man who dares question my methods. I regale anyone who will listen with the story behind each piece of chometz (or pseudo-chometz), cherishing my precious stash until Erev Pesach, when I�m forced to burn it.

�This Cheerio was stuck to the inside wall of the filing cabinet drawers where I keep my pay-stubs from when I was still single.�

�This mold-growing pasta was sandwiched between two headbands in my 9-18 months �girls summer clothing bag�.�

My pride and joy: a piece of lokshen kugel, glued with some mysterious substance to the underside of our seder plate. That one I save for those who wonder why I have to Pesach clean the Pesach things.

Again, you get the idea.

I won�t go into great detail about cooking, but suffice it to say that, for about two months before Pesach, my life-saving kitchen in the basement sees a non-stop flurry of activity, from the oven to the freezer, and then back again.

One particular year, I was due to give birth three weeks before Pesach. We decided to spend Pesach with my parents in Baltimore to spare me what I call my labor of love, but what the rest of the family deems backbreaking, excessive and unnecessary. I must admit, I was kind of relieved to be able to take it easy that year. It was a difficult pregnancy and waking up the morning after Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan with nothing but the usual daily chores on my agenda felt great.

I used my spare time to focus on the children, giving each my full attention while they spoke, spending ample time with them on their homework, even sitting down and playing games, making projects and having a great time. Gone was the rush, the madness and the �Let�s get this over with quickly because I have to clean and cook for Pesach.�

As Pesach neared, we consumed as many chometz products as we were able and got rid of whatever was left. When I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy a mere two weeks before Yom Tov, we planned the bris without the added pressure of cooking and cleaning for Pesach.

Then, Bedikas Chometz day dawned crisp and clear, and I was super relaxed. No last minute cleaning for me. All I had to do was clean one room for my husband to do a bedika on, have him call our Rabbi to sell the remaining chometz, wherever it was hiding, to the non-Jew, and we�d be off early tomorrow to a relaxing Pesach. Or so I thought.

Erev Pesach was a great day for interstate traveling. In the early afternoon, after a day and a half of frenzied packing, we piled into the car with our new addition carefully bundled into his car seat. It was with a true feeling of liberty, of z�man cheiruseinu, that we pulled out of our driveway.

Our liberty was pretty short lived. It began with a slight rumbling, then continued with a more ominous hissing. The coup de grace was the billowing smoke emanating from under the hood of our car. Barely two hours into the eight hour trip, we found ourselves on the side of the I-80 at a safe distance from our smoking car. My heart sank.

Shivering in our thin sweaters, my six girls and I huddled together while my husband attempted to get in touch with the AAA. Thankfully, the newborn was more appropriately attired and was comfortable for the moment, but a glance at my watch told me that he would very soon get hungry.

Thus began the waiting� and the whining� and the waiting� By the time the tow truck showed up, an hour later, the sinking feeling had begun to settle deep in my stomach.

While my husband and oldest daughter traveled home in the tow truck, I and the rest of the crew had to settle for a car service. Our desperate plea to be towed to Baltimore elicited incredulous laughter from our kind but businesslike tow truck driver. The cost of taking the car service the rest of the way to Baltimore ruled out that replica hublot option. We piled into our home exactly sixty minutes before candle lighting time, with the alarming awareness that Pesach has to be made� Now!

The panic that had been slowly rising over the course of this surreal day shot up exponentially.  I attempted to quell it by closing my eyes and inhaling really deeply. After ascertaining that this was not some nightmare I had yet to wake up from in the warmth of our car, I took mental stock of the situation. We had spent a minute talking and strategizing, meaning that candle lighting was now in fifty nine minutes. In that time we would need arrangement for our meals, out of the house, obviously, and we would need to clean and do a bedikah of our entire house.

I steadied my shaking hands, swallowed hard and opened my eyes to face my troops.

 �Okay, everyone, gather round for your assignments. We have exactly 59 minutes until yom tov, and that means we have 59 minutes to get this house ready for Pesach. What do you say; think we can do it?�

The gleam in my older daughters� eyes told me they were up for the challenge, Hashem should bless their souls. Because a mutiny was the last thing I needed on my hands at that moment.

My husband made arrangements for us to eat out for the first days at least, miraculously at one house. We could buy supplies after that or make the trip, a bit late. The first order of business for me was to map out the battlefield. I assigned two adults, or semi-adults, to each level of the house. The oldest girls would tackle upstairs; my husband and middle daughter would take on the main floor until he would begin the bedika, and the �Younger Middles�, as we like to call them, would handle the basement. My youngest girl, the new baby, and I would supervise.

I designated one of the bedrooms upstairs as the �Lock-Up room�, where we stowed anything that likely contained chometz but was too complicated to clean. We would lock up this room and that would be the room where all the non-Jew�s chometz would be stored, should he honor us with a visit. The three displaced girls would bunk with their sisters. I had already packed the children�s clothing for Yom Tov, so all the other clothing went in the Lock-Up room, as well as toys, games and books and select pieces of furniture.

We turned the music on loud enough to reverberate through all corners of the house, ensuring that only the fastest tunes with the most invigorating beats play, to help us maintain the tempo and rhythm of our cleaning.

Following behind me, by just a few steps, was my husband doing a quickie bedika, the shortest he had ever done for a full house bedika, and this year even he discovered �real� chometz.

Meanwhile, I tried to close my eyes to this short-cut version of Pesach cleaning that was transpiring in my very own home. My husband kept our devoted rov on the phone nearly the entire time, asking checking, receiving guidance and inspiration (and counseling). It was amazing how little I truly knew about what was required, what was recommended and what was ridiculous.

�Move the stove?�

�No!�

�The fridge gaskets?

�Pour ammonia!�

�Coat pockets?�

�Whatever they�ll wear on Pesach.�

The questions were endless. Chairs, mattresses, window shades, sock drawers� we�d never thought to differentiate between what was necessary and what wasn�t; we�d always just cleaned it all.

Couches that would be used on Pesach were opened, moved and vacuumed. Toys were all stowed out of sight, besides for a select few that were easy to clean and would suffice to keep the children busy for the entire duration of our Yom Tov at home. We didn�t even bother checking the books, generally a job that took two weeks, as I had very strict no�eating�and�reading rules. Tables were covered tightly with waterproof material, and the chometz kitchenware wasn�t even glanced at.

We scrubbed, we covered and we taped shut. We laughed, we sang, and we screamed.

Some time in the middle of all the madness, my husband recited with particular intensity the words that nullified any chometz we�d overlooked, and ran out to shul, six blocks away.

I took over. The adrenaline coursing through my veins helped me forget that I was still recovering from birth and not exactly operating at peak strength. We swept and vacuumed till the kids said it�s time to light.

When my husband returned from maariv, it was to a home smelling of lemon-scented cleanser and hefty doses of Ajax and to a tired but glowing troop of women lining up to greet him. 59 minutes and we had done it (or it had done us in). Right then and there,  all I could think about was, if I did this I could do anything.

I could make a wedding two weeks before Pesach, and I could have 50 guests over for the seder. I could compromise slightly on my self-imposed pressure to be  perfect and I could make Pesach no matter what else may be going on in my life.

Because in future years, if circumstances will seem difficult and I�ll wonder how to cope, all I�d have to do is remember the time I made Pesach in 59 minutes.