My two-and-a-half year old daughter can say the alphabet and count to 20. She recognizes a handful of the letters in the alphabet and knows how to share—most of the time. She sings “Tinkle, Tinkle, Little Star,” “Itsy, Bitsy Spider” and Hannah Montana’s “Hoe-Down, Throw-Down.”

All of this—except that last song, a product of a week-long road trip with her eight-year-old older sister—is a direct result of the fact that, like her brother and sister before her, the Barnacle (read: Baby) has gone to Montessori school since she was 18 months old.

Until recently, she was happy there. And so was I. I’d known and trusted these teachers for more than 10 years. Sure, my daughter cried a little when I dropped her off in the morning—a painful five minutes that the other kids grew out of after a few weeks. But after those few minutes, and when I picked her up from school, she was completely happy. She kissed and hugged her teachers, talked about her friends when she was at home, and was on par with her peers both academically and socially.

But in the last few months, those morning minutes of tears stretched out until the Barnacle was throwing an hour-long tantrum that began at home and lasted until I pried her fingers from around my neck to hand her to her teacher. She wouldn’t brush her teeth or hair, wear her shoes or clothes, and a few times I even took her to school in her pajamas. The worst was trying to get her into her car seat, when I physically had to force her into the straps—both of us crying.

It was hell.

I tried everything. I discontinued the potty training. I left the big-girl bed unmade and let her sleep in her crib—with five blankies. I took her to school late and dropped her off quickly. I took her to school early and played for 20 minutes before handing her over. And once I drove out of that parking lot, I tried to forget about the crying baby I’d left behind.

But last week, I hit my breaking point. I just couldn’t pry off those tiny fingers one more time. So I took her out of school for the rest of the summer. I was convinced I could make it work: I’d write when she was napping, playing quietly in her room, or watching the occasional hour of “Sesame Street.”

At first, it worked out just fine. We walked the kids to camp, played on the swings and slides at the park—on Thursday, we even went to the beach in the afternoon. But the work part? Not so much. My daughter is so happy playing in her room that she wants to share all that she finds there with me. She’s given up naptime. And her PBS hour has stretched into two.

I love my daughter. And I hate for her to be upset. But when she’s home, I’m constantly interrupted. My back is knotted up because I can’t make it to the gym to work out and stretch, which makes picking up my 32-pound baby even more painful—and me even more cranky. And I feel like none of my tasks are ever finished—just halfway complete.

I know we’ll adjust. I’ve cut back my workload so that it will be more manageable. We’re all taking a vacation in August. And the summer will slow everything down, making morning trips to the park and a few extra minutes of “Handy Manny” not such a big deal.

I hope that after spending the summer at home, in September the Barnacle will want to go back to her numbers and letters and teachers and friends. But what if she doesn’t? The idea of permanently working half time makes me feel trapped—and the fact that I feel trapped by the idea of spending as much time with my daughter as I do with my work makes me feel guilty.

It’s a classic conundrum. And no, this post has nothing to do with going green. But it has everything to do with being a mommy.