We sat around the Shabbos table with the many guests we invited for the meal. The toddlers were fast asleep. The baby was in her infant seat, playing contentedly with her new teething ring. We reminded the older children to be on their best behavior. Of course, they agreed wholeheartedly. The children loved having company as much as we did.

   After Kiddush we washed our hands for Hamotzi. The children sat quietly at the table, actually behaving for a change. I was proud to be their mother.

   We were ready to serve the first course. When our guest and long-time friend Chani offered to help, I gratefully accepted. She lifted the rather large salad bowl and quickly headed to the dining room. As she was about to set the bowl on the table, she tripped over a toy she hadn't noticed before. The tossed salad landed in my husband's lap.

   "Don't worry. It's nothing," he assured her, and continued conversing with the other guests. But Chani was very embarrassed, especially since all the children left their places at the table to investigate the situation. Once they left the table, there was no stopping them. Rather than help clean up, they began to laugh uncontrollably.

   Instead of being a proud mother, I turned into a monster. I yelled at the children, sending them to bed without dessert. My husband and I were very embarrassed by the children's behavior. Long after the guests left, we discussed the pros and cons of having company with young children in the house. Of course, we continued having orchim (guests). But we often wondered if a day would come when the children were grown and we would be able to sit through a Shabbos (or weekday) meal without the little ones interrupting every course.

   Years passed. Guests came and went. Many kept in touch; others we never heard from again. But one guest became a "regular" at our Shabbos table. All Mr. Perlman's "thank you's" over the years were nothing in comparison to what he did (and continues to do) for my self-esteem.

   Mr. Perlman enjoyed the children and the noise (at least that's what he always claimed). Their bickering never disturbed him. "Children are children," he hastily reminded us every time we tried to apologize for their misbehavior. When anyone else invited him for lunch, he always declined, telling them that he was our "regular" Shabbos guest. We accepted him as part of our family, eagerly anticipating his weekly visits. He enjoyed the divrei Torah, the stories the children brought home from school each week, as well as the piping-hot cholent. Winter or summer, he made our cholent sound as though it were worth a million "challahs." ("Challah" is the word we use when speaking of money at the Shabbos table.)

   A new young couple, the Farbmans, moved to town, and we invited them over on many occasions. As their house was very quiet all week long, Surie and Feivel enjoyed the hustle and bustle of our busy household. And we enjoyed their company as well. A match made in heaven! Then one day they called. "Mazel tov, it's a boy!" Although we had been eagerly anticipating the good news, we felt a tinge of sadness. Our dear friends would no longer be able to join us for Shabbos. We kept in touch and visited often throughout the week. But it was not the same as those warm, happy hours spent together on Friday nights while the candles flickered brightly on the Shabbos table.

   We were surprised when Surie called a few weeks later to invite us for a yom tov meal. "I don't know what to say," I responded. "We always eat at home on yom tov and Shabbos. It would feel very awkward to go somewhere else for the meal. Besides, you just had a new baby. It wouldn't be fair to come over with a houseful of children."

   The Farbmans insisted on having us over and would not take "no" for an answer. We agreed—provided, of course, that we could bring along our "regular" Shabbos guest. He had been eating with us for years, and we always included him in our plans. Our friends readily agreed.

   The table was festively set when we arrived, and the meal was delicious. Although we had been hesitant about going, it turned out to be a very pleasant experience. That is, of course, until our youngsters decided to play Hide and Seek in the Farbmans' rather small apartment. Since the baby was asleep upstairs, the children ran around in the kitchen trying to find hiding places where none existed. I kept asking them to quiet down—to no avail. They, too, were enjoying a yom tov meal away from home.

   Suddenly we heard a loud crash. One of the children had accidentally knocked over a large roaster filled with delicious-looking fried chicken. Surie insisted that it didn't matter, that she understood. But we were very embarrassed. We decided then and there never to get invited out again until the children grew up.

   Would that day ever come? we often wondered. Many people assured us that it would—sooner than we thought—but at that moment we were definitely not convinced.

   Years have a way of passing by unnoticed. When my youngest daughter recently approached me for help in planning her bas mitzvah, I suddenly awoke to reality. My friends had not deceived me. "The kids" had turned into young adults.

   Things have become somewhat more tranquil in recent years. We are finally getting to know each child (still living at home) individually—rather than labeling them "the kids." I am certain that the children enjoy this special relationship as well.

   We can now invite guests without worrying about "the children." As a matter of fact, what we enjoy most is being able to sit at the table and hold a conversation with family and friends while the teenagers do the serving and clearing (many times even with a smile).

   Then it came, the day people assured us would definitely arrive—but about which we were never truly convinced. We discovered one summer that we would have no children at home for four weeks. Peace at long last.

   Was I excited? Was I happy? On the contrary, a feeling of sadness enveloped me. I straightened up the house and it stayed that way. I cooked a large pot of soup and it lasted all week. I was lonelier than I had been in my entire life.

   Before I had too much time to worry, however, the phones began to ring. (It seemed to me that everyone knew about our empty nest even before we did.)

   "Hi, this is Leah. Since you have no children home for the next few weeks, perhaps you can help me with a project I'm working on."

   "Hi, Sara, my husband and I are planning to go away for a couple of days. Would you mind baby-sitting Chavi while we're gone?"

   "Sara, I need a favor. I'm having some out-of-town relatives and I'm wondering if they can stay at your house. Your house will be empty and quiet, while ours is very noisy." I took two aspirin tablets and removed the phone from the hook. I suddenly wasn't so sure about this empty nest syndrome.

   The four weeks advanced rapidly. Before we knew it, the children were back home again. I was busy; I was happy. I had missed their laughter, their friends, and most of all—their companionship. I began to realize how grown up they actually were. I had to come to terms with the fact that they would soon be leaving home for good, Are we ready to face what is soon to be reality? Probably not. But at least when the time comes we know we will be prepared. We will invite the grandchildren. We will take in boarders. Better yet, we look forward to a long-overdue vacation.

Sara Gottlieb lives in Oak Park, MI, and is a frequent contributor to The Jewish Homemaker.