The sheets are cool, the blanket is soft. Your hair, still damp from the bath smells of shampoo and clings to the back collar of your pajamas. Curled up, you drowse as muffled talk and laughter drift up the stairs to your room. Is there any safer, more wonderful feeling than being a child, drifting off to sleep, knowing the grown-ups are on duty downstairs?

One of the things I really miss now that I'm an adult is falling asleep to the sound of women's voices. Back when my dad worked as a meter reader for the gas company, he would often pull the graveyard shifts to earn extra money. On the nights he was gone, my mom would have friends over. Some of these women were single; some were married to men who also worked the third shift; one or two had husbands who drank and passed out and were pretty much dead to the world by 10 pm. Mostly they talked, drinking pots of coffee, smoking, and eating cake, doughnuts or pastries - none of which seemed to affect their weight in the slightest. Now and again they'd crack open a bottle of Blue Nun, or whip up a blender of daiquiris. From their frosted hair, which they did themselves, pulling each strand through a rubber cap with a crochet hook, to their Avon makeup, they seemed awfully glamorous and hip for a pack of moms. To me, they were as beautiful and worldly as any movie star.

It wasn't all just sitting around talking. Sometimes, they'd have seances, or tarot card readings, or a psychic in to tell their fortunes. The Ouija Board was even trotted out. This was way before the New Age movement, or Wicca. These were just regular Catholic housewives, young and bored - maybe feeling trapped by their marriages and kids and neat tract houses. Only one or two worked outside of the home. Several, including my mom, didn't even know how to drive. They were married to men like my father who considered a working wife to be a slur on her husband's masculinity and his abilities as a provider. Whatever money these women had to call their own was skimmed from the weekly grocery allotment. So what if they chose to spend their little bit on a card reader? Would you condemn them for being so hopeful about the future that they were willing to empty their purses for a sneak preview?

The seances were kind of goofy. I don't remember what spirits were being summoned or why - or if any actually showed up. Candles were burned, hands were held, but mostly, they just scared themselves silly. The psychic, a robust bottle-blonde named Joan, who had actually been consulted by the New Jersey State Police in several missing-person cases, was a bigger hit. She became a regular and served as much as a counselor as she did a soothsayer. To be fair, a good many of her predictions were right on the money. (She even told a very small me that I'd marry a man named Mark; have an exciting career, and a life filled with changes.) If she could see that Aunt Pat's daughter would eventually spiral down into drug addiction, or that Grandma Blackhair would lose her husband in a plane crash or that Aunt Rosemary would soon be diagnosed with breast cancer, well, she didn't say. Joan never told you more than you could handle and anyway, people usually want only the good news.

Lying in my bed, I'd hear their voices, rising in laughter or falling to whispers. I thought that when I grew up that I would have long nights with my girlfriends, laughing and sharing secrets while my children slept nearby. What I didn't know - what even Joan couldn't foresee - was that by the time that I grew up, all the women I knew would have jobs and demands that made hanging out on a Tuesday night to have your tarot read damn near impossible. My Grandmom Blackhair used to say to me that her whole life had been a world of women, which was lucky, considering her husband was always at sea. Looking back, I realize that men in general were absent, that fathers were either out at their jobs or if home, silent and exhausted. It was the same at the houses of friends and cousins - women everywhere, rummaging in the kitchen or seated in plastic lawn chairs while we played on swing sets or splashed in kiddy pools. They tell me now how bored or frustrated or lonely they felt, how they longed for some kind, any kind, of freedom or autonomy. Aunt Pat tells me how lucky I am to have such an wonderful career, money of my own, power to choose my own path, a husband who respects me. She's right, of course. I wouldn't trade places. And yet...why do I feel such nostalgia for a way of life that the very women I miss couldn't wait to escape?

A few months ago, my stepson said,"I heard you and Daddy laughing last night while I was in bed. What was so funny?" I told him that the sound of voices and laughter used to be my favorite thing in the whole wide world to listen to before sleeping. He gave me a kindly look - the way you do when dealing with the insane - and asked, "Why?" I tried to explain, but didn't succeed. He's only eight - he can't miss what he still has. And everyone knows that you can't tell kids to enjoy it now, while they can, because you'll just sound like some dotty old fruitbat if you do. Since you can't live in the past, I'm glad to report that there is a happy ending to this story: my job requires me to wake up at 4 am. This means that there are nights when I go to bed before my guys, especially in summer when it stays light for so long. On those nights, if I'm lucky, I can snuggle into my pillows and drift off listening to their voices. Sure, it's a little different. But it's still very, very nice.