Naturally, I couldn’t help but think about what the dance at L’s wedding would be like, and what song she’ll want to dance to.

(FYI, Powergirl and her pop danced to Paul Simon’s “Father and Daughter” at our wedding).

The daddy-daughter dance tradition has odd beginnings. Historically, the pageantry has symbolized some sort of change of ownership—the father gets one last hurrah before ceremonially handing his little girl over to her new No. 1. This old-world notion of “ownership” has changed somewhat over the years, though to some extent, the ritual still implies some sort of changing of the guard.

There’s no way control-freak fathers like myself can arrive at that moment without asking themselves at least once, “Can my baby girl’s partner love her the way I have all these years?”

The answer to this question, of course, is no.

I’ve learned it as a son-in-law and now as a father myself: no partner can match or mirror a lifetime of unconditional love of a father for his daughter, and no partner ever should try.

How could I, as Powergirl’s new husband on that night in 2004, know what it was like to love her before she became the woman she is today? What’s more, how can L’s partner-to-be ever know what it was like for me to stay up both nights this weekend, letting her suck my finger in a desperate effort to ease the pain of her first tooth?

Don’t get me wrong here, a wedding day is all about the newlyweds. But let’s face it: for these lovebirds, the love is just starting; for moms and dads, the love already has existed for a lifetime. The father-daughter dance is a wonderful and modest acknowledgment of this reality, a shout-out to the fact that some ties never sunder. For that reason alone, a little vaklempt is fine by me.

This time, I’m off to Las Vegas for a mix of work and (PG-rated) pleasure. Considering I just recently got back from four days in Boston, I’m becoming an old pro at saying goodbye to L for a few days. That said, folks, let me assure you—the whole going away thing hasn’t gotten any easier.

In preparation for the inevitable separation angst, I hogged L for most of Thursday afternoon. We listened to Paul Simon. We stared at her new Orca mobile (thanks, Barbara and Jeff!). We even schlepped to buy Powergirl provisions for the next few days.

Our afternoon was a win-win for everybody: I got to hang with the baby, the baby got to hang with me, and Powergirl had time to give herself a pedicure, take a nap and go the gym.

Still, every time I thought about not seeing L for 54 hours this weekend, I got teary.

Like last time, I keep thinking about everything I’ll miss. The kid is sitting up like a maniac these days—by the time I get back Sunday night, she could practically be walking. I feel like her first word is imminent as well; if I missed that, I don’t think I ever could forgive myself.

The more I grapple with these pangs of anxiety, the more I wonder how other parents go right back to business-as-usual after a baby arrives. Athletes do it all the time. So do CEOs, and other freelance travel writers. Am I just soft? If so, does my “softness” mean I’m somehow less of a professional?

I wonder at what point—if ever—I’ll be able to hit the road without battling these emotions. Hopefully, I’ll get there before L graduates high school. That was only sort of a joke.