It's taken ten years for me to face up to the fact that I'm a step-dad.

Ever since Cinderella's dysfunctional family shot into the public eye, I'm afraid that step-parents have had a bad press. And unlike the 'real thing', it seems that the story just keeps on repeating itself.  Feelings of jealousy and resentment abound and no one can quite find their place.

Ten years that I've been playing this supporting role to one of our children and, to be honest, I don't think I've done much to alter the reputation of our breed.  Looking back, in fact, I only seem to be able to remember the days when we sat looking at each other from across the dinner table, as if existing in different worlds.

Of course, I never refer to myself as a 'step-dad'.  That feels far too Dickensian and, unlike poor Cinderella, her 'real' dad still lives just around the corner.  At the same time, though, I have begun to think that this whole business of step-parenting is appropriately summed up in the name.

Let me explain with four simple, connected ideas.

1. Step in parenting

It all starts when we step into the gap left by a parent that's no longer around.  Rarely is it our primary motivation for sitting around the family table.  It just comes with the territory of this new relationship. 

And within a matter of days we find ourselves making the packed lunches, doing the school run, and reading bedtime stories in a language that is not our own.  We want to make this work - so for the love of another, we roll up our sleeves and rush right in.

2. Step back parenting

To the outsider - those who naively observe us in the local supermarket - we'll soon resemble any other 'normal' family as we discuss the merits of still and sparkling water in isle 17.  Truthfully, though, if you had interrupted and interrogated me at any time during the past ten years, I'd have probably said that I was nothing more than an 'extra' in this particular episode of family life.  I'd have taken you to one side and told you in no uncertain terms that I was still waiting for the permanent contract.

What I wouldn't have told you was how difficult I was finding being a 'pretend' dad to a young child whose 'real' dad would regularly knock on the door unannounced.  As she ran into his arms, all I could do was  step back into the shadows and reflect on how fake I felt.

3. One step away parenting

Have you ever tried to build a house of cards. Despite what you see on the tv, it's hard to get beyond three cards.  And rather than being an enjoyable pastime, you tend to spend most of your time picking up the pieces and arranging back them in their proper order.

I don't know about you, but I have a growing feeling that the same is true with step-parenting.  No matter how carefully, how sensitively, we build the relationship, we face an almost impossible construction task. We dream that one day we'll build the Eiffel Tower, but in truth we're only ever one tiny step away from collapse and those dreadful, menacing, show-stopping words. 

You're not my real dad, anyway!

Even if I've been a step parent since forever - at least as far as my children are concerned - the absence of those blood ties appears to be a chronic, destabilising factor in the story of our family that constantly leads us straight back to square one. 

4. Step by step parenting

So how does this story end?  It's clear to me now that the odds are stacked against the likes of us; and, equally, that I'm not going to be voted 'Step-Dad of the Year' any time soon.

And yet I haven't given up hope.  I haven't lost sight of the goal that, when we both look back on the family life we had, we'll consider ourselves fortunate to have shared the same table, been part of the same story, and written our futures together.

And for now, I'll simply focus on being a one-step-at-a-time parent, waiting for my big break.

My dear children, this one is for you.

Stop what you are doing for just a moment. Don't worry about who said what, who did what and whose turn it is to sit in the middle. If your brother touches you, let it go. If your sister winds you up, respond with a touch of humour and generosity.

No, we're not there yet.  In fact, the journey is only just beginning.  And anyway, its not about what we do when we 'get there' - its about the 'getting there'. 

So wind down the window and enjoy the view.

When I was about your age, I always imagined that one day I would have the chance to visit this land of adventure and opportunity. And as strange as it may seem to you now, it was my dream growing up to see 'Jaws' at Universal, visit the rockets that stand outside the Kennedy Space Center, and experience the magic of Disney first hand.  Night after night, I remember reading about this stuff in the encyclopaedia next to my bed and wondering how anyone could have turned an entire country into such a wonderful playground for teenage boys.

So, if I'm honest, we're doing this for me as much as for you.  I know that Jaws is not so realistic when you're up close.  I know that Mickey's world is a rip off - where people pay to queue - and that the whole business of space travel today has nothing of the noble romance of yesteryear.  That said, I'd still like you guys to stop telling me that you are bored and let me enjoy my moment.

No, that came out wrong.  I don't want you to think for one moment that I want to do this thing alone.  Quite the opposite.  It's so much more fun with you guys next to me.

Maybe you don't realise it now, but this trip is about all of us creating and laying down stories together - fleeting moments in time that for the rest of our lives - no matter what the future holds, whether together or apart - promise to remind us and define us as a family.

Some might say, perhaps, that I'm just an experience junkie, pretending to be an 'experience architect', passing on to you (my kids) a dangerous habit. And, perhaps, that is true.  But let me tell you this.

When I saw your face as you swam up close to that dolphin; when I recall our conversation after surviving that roller-coaster; and when I think about you drawing breath in awe as you watched the sun set over Manhattan, I cannot help but feel that these moments together are ours to treasure, forever.

For what they are worth, then, this is my gift.

And before I go, there is just one more thing.

While you were arguing in the back seat, you remember that I asked the taxi driver to drop us off at the front entrance of the swanky hotel and not the side. This was frustrating for your guys, as it meant we sat several minutes longer in the Manhattan traffic. 

You were tired, I know. Believe me, though, I did it for a reason.

I wanted you to have your moment.  I wanted you to be the stars.  I wanted you to live the so-called american dream.

I was hoping that you would stop worrying about who was in the middle and who said what.  I wanted you to wind down the window and simply enjoy being the centre of the world - just for a moment.

Not just the centre of mine.

One day, if not now, you'll understand and want the same for your own kids.

Your Dad.

I can’t really complain, I didn’t share let him in on the secret either.

Like many fathers before me, I really wasn’t all that aware of what I was doing as I pulled the first football shirt over my young son’s head.  I was more concerned with how this genetically personalized mascot would look, than the long term emotional effects of pulling an England shirt over his head.

Of course, his mother disapproved; but I carried on regardless.  It was just the way things had to be.  It was my duty. 

Or so I thought.

I had several opportunities early on to stop the sickness spreading.  Again, though, I failed to spot the tell-tale signs: delusions of grandeur, difficulty in distinguishing between fantasy and reality, and often compulsive behaviour.  It is too often the case that only in hindsight do we realize the universal significance of our most mundane acts.

Sitting next to my teenage son, still in his shirt and glued to the television in youthful hope and expectation, I feel guilty – guilty for not letting him in on the secret; guilty for not stepping in and shielding him from the tide of emotion that I know will sweep over him within the next ninety minutes; guilty for allowing him to believe that 44 years of ‘hurt’ and disappointment can be traded in for a once-in-a-lifetime, golden ticket to World Cup final victory.

I feel guilty, but I know it is far too late now to change his destiny.  He has gone through the rites of passage and is now marked out as an England fan; and will likely spend the rest of his life dividing time into periods of four years – always hoping that at least once in his life, if he keeps the faith, he will witness a match that will atone for everything that has gone before.

But that’s the thing.  Even if, by some remote chance, the gods decide that it is our turn to reach the promised land; if ever those decisions go in our favour; if ever our players come good at the right time, there’s no guarantee that our lives will feel more meaningful, complete, or fulfilled.

Looking across at my son at the other end of the sofa – watching his disbelief as these boyhood heroes let him down again – I realize that I have continued a great British tradition and kept the secret, just as my own father kept it from me until I was old enough to work it out on my own.

You see the story that is being played out between twenty two men over ninety minutes is never as simple as it seems.  

No, something’s afoot: a bigger story is literally being played out before our eyes; the tale of a group of people who once thought that they ruled the world, but didn’t; a story of a nation struggling to perform on the world stage in any meaningful way.

And until we come to terms with this, we’re going to keep on getting bad results.

For now at least, it appears that the secret’s safe and we’ll be back to prove the point in another four years.