The Sis called me lucky recently, in a conversation volleyed over an internet app, since we live across the world from each other (unlucky) but are able to communication instantly this way (lucky). Her description related to one aspect of my life thus far: celebrity spotting.

I know what you’re thinking: that’s some substantial shit. Enough to build an identity on! And you’re right, at least inasmuch that I’ve tried to build an identity on my knowledge of celebrity gossip (fuelled by a religious practice in my 20s and…maybe past that, sitting in the bookstore every weekend reading tabloids for free) and on being in the right place at the right time. Which is why I loved living in New York, the site of celebs living their “real lives” right where we could brush past them. I have a friend who would claim to see Tom Cruise’s brother or Katie Holmes’s cousin in each face we passed, but I on the other hand…I could spot the real deal a mile away. The Carters and Paltrow/Martins on the Upper East Side, Mandy Moore at Pastis…I should’ve kept a list. Apparently, Conan O’Brien is in Sydney right now and The Sis suggested I go find him. In that form of FOMO that sticks around long after the party is over, that part of me that still wants to be recognised for recognising led me to Ticketmaster to try to get into his show tomorrow night (spoiler alert: sold out).

I don’t have as much time (or energy) to stalk celebrities these days. I have two divas in my own home (three, if you count The Husband when he asks me if I would mind taking his dry-cleaning) who require full-time attention. And lucky isn’t a word I use much anymore, since blessed has taken its place. I am, of course, referring to the sarcastic version of that word with the hashtag in front, as #blessed is the name of a group chat of which I am a member as well as being a term my friends and I describe our lives when another kid has shit his pants or we forget to send cupcakes to school for a birthday. It’s all-encompassing, this word, in both sincerity and irony.

But lucky still pops up, like a way of hedging bets to keep from putting too fine a point on any situation, or of involving the divine in matters. Earnestness in relation to blessed, after all, implies the involvement of a Blesser and not everyone is on board with that. Which I get. But still…it’s the only way for me to survive.

Little Brother’s favourite teacher, and the director of his preschool, died last week (unlucky). The email relating the news was a punch to the gut, rendering me breathless there in my closet while the kids played in the next room and I felt a growing sense of dread over telling them. This man, who jokes with me about that carafe that looks like rosé in the school fridge, who calls LB “Groover” and tells him “toodle poodle” at the end of the day, who settles him when I’m dropping him off in the morning with a book on the sofa…he cannot be gone, but he is. Via an aneurism that leaves his wife a widow and his children fatherless and my sons with so many questions. Somehow, unlucky doesn’t sum it up. Doesn’t begin to capture the pain and loss so many are feeling right now.

The other day, on the way into school, The Kid asked me why not everyone has a therapist. I geared up emotionally, which for me looks like silent prayers and anxiety, and then he continued: “Are they just not lucky?” The breath left me, as always, at the beautiful way he sees his world.

And at the way LB said to me yesterday, “You know why I tell jokes, Mommy? To make you laugh.” This little performer, already so aware of others’ reactions, so different from his brother, and I get both of them: the thoughtful empath and the hilarious ham, each still so much more than that. Lucky.

But it’s not enough, this term. Was I lucky to have gotten to LB’s school last week in time to share one last joke with his teacher, or to arrive there that afternoon in time to witness a dance party in his classroom? Were we just lucky to have known him at all? Is TK lucky to have friends who, like this morning, bring him watches from their collections as gifts because they know he loves them? Am I lucky to smell salt water every day?

Are we unlucky to have to grieve a too-soon passing? Unlucky that I stepped on a sea urchin this weekend after a post-party dive into the ocean? Is TK unlucky to need a bit of extra help at times, or to face potential misunderstanding? Are we unlucky to be so far from friends and family across the world?

There’s no danger that I’ll stop using the hashtag version anytime soon, but I’m attempting to remember the sincere version, the one whispered as thanks in prayers over small heads, the one that acknowledges the faithfulness of someone outside myself even when I’d like to complain to management (him) about his techniques. This reality of being blessed, in the midst of loss and gain, of presence and absence, of ease and hardship, it is what connects and redefines the gulf between lucky and unlucky, what includes them both within its vast umbrella and makes them all, somehow, the same: grace.