It was the strangest conversation. A friend with a teenager was recounting what it was like to sit on hold, waiting to see if she had secured an appointment for COVID vaccinations for one of her children.
It was, she said, like booking concert tickets, for an act that would be in town for two nights only, with limited seats. And she did it three times, for three kids, aged 18, 16 and 13. But they're all in.
Other friends haven't quite got there, having missed the brief window before the booking system was overwhelmed, and are now waiting to try again.
Another one booked her 18-year-old in for an AZ jab, because he was working with children. She also had her 16-year-old booked in at the Surge Centre, but cancelled when she got him into a GP's clinic at a date two weeks earlier.
That GP was then swiftly booked out weeks in advance, leaving other parents frantically - and mildly resentfully - searching online for another GP, somewhere in town, with enough Pfizer for their own teens.
There's a sense of urgency around it all, even though in theory, there are more than enough vaccines to go around, and our children will be safe once Canberra reaches herd immunity.
But staying at home during lockdown and adhering to public health orders somehow doesn't seem enough; if there is a way of further contributing to that magical 80 per cent, we will all do it in any way we can.
Still another friend has a child who's autistic, and had them vaccinated through the NDIS as soon as she was able.
Her other child, meanwhile, who struggles to concentrate in class, is thriving through remote learning, and she's wondering whether she'll be happy to send him back to school, whenever that may be.
And then there are those of us with primary-aged kids, staring down the abyss of two weeks of holidays. Vaccines don't even figure, unless we're thinking about the teachers.
Most of us are in our 40s, already vaccinated, and wondering whether lockdown will end in time for us to catch our breath before Christmas descends.
What will these conversations sound like in a year's time? All this talk of bubbles, masks, check-ins, exposure sites, working from home, Google classrooms, Zoom playdates, daily walks just like dogs (many of which have been acquired during lockdown, another subset of COVID-only conversations) - our language has completely morphed.
So too has the mood. Last year we were scared and alert and fascinated - aware of living through a historical event. There was talk of Blitz spirit, and vague comparisons to the Depression.
Today, we're wearily familiar with the drill, and wondering whether embracing remote learning could be the extent of our contribution to this very contemporary version of the War Effort.
Or is getting through each day without giving into pointless personal despair enough?