I leave in the morning for four days (and a buddy’s wedding) in Boston, the first real time apart from my little girl.

To say I’m dreading the separation would be the understatement of the century. During the first three months of L’s life, I haven’t spent more than nine hours away from her. Now I’ve got to somehow make it through 92 of them.

In anticipation of a rough few days, I’ve taken some precautions to ease the transition. I have set up a Web cam. I dumped hundreds of electronic photos on my travel laptop. Powergirl and I also have scheduled some phone calls for the hours when the baby has been most “talkative” and awake.

Still, I’m sure I’m going to miss both of my ladies like mad.

Thinking about my time away from the baby sparks some of my most deep-rooted insecurities. Will she notice I’m gone? Will she miss me? Will she recognize my voice on the phone?

I’m also bumming about the milestones I undoubtedly will miss. Today, for instance, the baby almost rolled over on her left side; I’m sure by the time I return Sunday night, she’ll be an old pro. For all I know, she could start talking while I’m out there.

I know, I know—especially considering I’m a travel writer, the only way to get past this anxiety is to deal with it. And I’m sure I’ll have a blast with a bunch of old friends while I’m gone. That said, there’s nothing wrong with counting the hours until I see my little girl again. Essentially, the clock starts now.