EVER SINCE I decided to stay in Cambridge for Commencement, my family has been pushing "home" as some kind of getaway-from-it-all, rest-and-relaxation, bed-and-breakfast resort. And it sounds pretty good right about now.

My mom's been giving me the hard sell. When I called the other day, she wanted to know how the Crimson Commencement issues were coming along.

"Are you having fun?" she asked.

"Yeah, I am."

"Are you getting paid for this?" she asked.

"No, I'm not."

Silence. Then, "Oh. So why are you staying?"

"I don't know. To write. To bond with the staff," I told her.

"Oh, Molly," she sighed. "All the other kids are home now. Alissa came home from Texas. Nathan's back from the Academy. Can't you come home now?"

How exactly do you respond to the "All the Other Moms Have a College Kid" argument?

And a few days later, she begged, "Come home. Home, where people will cook for you and clean for you and do your laundry for you and people love you."

"But I have to be edited," I said weakly.

Even my 16-year-old brother seemed kind of halfway interested in my return. "So when are you coming home again? Next month or something?" he asked me the other day.

"This Thursday."

"Oh yeah. Cool. What are you doing again? A paper for class or something?"

"No. Classes are over. I'm staying for the newspaper."

"Oh yeah. Right, right. Cool. What's your newspaper called again? The Fuschia?"

I HAVEN'T BEEN HOME to Nebraska since December. I know there are people who probably come to Harvard their first year and don't care if they ever go home again. But I'm not one of them.

I can't go home as frequently as my friends from Massachusetts or New York or Washington. I live far enough away that I was assigned a "Harvard Host Family" when I was a first-year. Home is in a different time zone. I can't get home without a connecting flight.

"You can't fly direct?" many Big City Dwellers often ask me in amazement. No. I can't. Because, as my New England blockmate says, I live in "East Boofoo." (She visited me last summer. She flew. She understands. She won't say "Bumfuck.)"

It's still a big deal for me to go home. This spring, though, a friend raised a disturbing point: "I don't want home to be someplace I just visit," he said. "Not yet, anyway. I still want it to be home."

It made me shudder, that word "visit." And once I go home on June 4, I'll only be there for a couple weeks. After that I'm going elsewhere.

Okay, I'm coming back here, actually. To work. Okay, so I'm working on the summer Crimson. Yes, I've thought this through, and I know what I'm doing. Sort of.

A TWO-WEEK STAY at home. Or is it a "visit"? Maybe it really will be like a bed and breakfast. Or a hotel.

I'll be picked up at the airport. I'll walk in my house and check in downstairs and then my brother will carry my bags to my room (maybe I'll even tip him) and then I'll unpack.

I'll see all the tourist attractions that Lincoln has to offer--that will take all of an hour and a half--then I'll go see my friends. At the end of two weeks I'll check out, but before I do, I'll sign a Guest Book: "Had a wonderful time. Great food. Really appreciated Rod and Laurie's hospitality. I felt very much at home."

Weird. And unlikely. Realistically, I'll have to make my bed, help with the dishes and not act like I think I'm a guest at the Ritz-Carlton. I doubt it will be well-received if I call for room service, for example.

But room service. It's probably worth a try; I could handle room service for two weeks. I wouldn't mind maid service, either. And hotels usually have jacuzzis and mints-on-the-pillows and helpful, friendly staffs. None of that would be so bad. There's no place like home, but if it were like the Ritz, that would be cool, too.

Maybe this is the way to do it. As you grow up, you go home less often. More and more of your life is spent somewhere else, somewhere crueler. And that's why it's still necessary to escape every so often: to visit.

Because while home has always been where "they understand you," as you get older, it becomes "where they bend over backwards to understand you and cater to your every need."

Not a bad deal. I'll look forward to my "visits" home. I'll send my friends postcards with a picture of my house on the front, and on the back I'll write, "Having a wonderful time at home. Wish you were here."

I'll tip my brother well. He is, after all, a blood relation. I'll compliment my parents on the adorable little home they're running--I'll definitely recommend it to my friends. And I'll be sure to inform my family that "no thank you, a wake-up call won't be necessary."