Making the most of the weekends

My husband has been working like troopers recently - and I don't just mean in his paid employment, though that is demanding enough in itself.
As a truck driver for a local branch of a successful nationwide delivery company, he spends more time during the week away from the house than at home, bidding his family (read: Miss Pup and me, the sole interested parties) a fond farewell before 7am every day and often not returning until past 8pm.
His hours of work are unrelenting and intense, involving extensive periods of driving, coupled with strenuous lifting and loading. When he crawls through the back door each evening, grimy and exhausted, it's as much as he can do to drag himself into the shower and swallow his microwave reheated dinner before he collapses on the sofa, wearied to the bone.
We might manage half an episode of a favourite television show we're attempting to watch together before I sense his silence has drifted into slumber, which indicates the closing of the day (assuming I haven't nodded off in the meantime, of course).
That is the status quo for the better part of the week, with the two of us only fleetingly interacting between Monday and Friday; when that latter day's hallowed evening arrives, ringing in the changes, we are happily reunited once again, ready for the weekend's shenanigans.
It's one of the reasons why we cherish our Saturdays and Sundays, which feel like a vital boost for my husband after the slog of the previous five days. Recently, our younger daughter and elder son both acquired jobs that demand their presence at least one day of the weekend, and we are often kept busy for a portion of one or both mornings transporting them to their places of employ.
There is the weekly shop to be done on Saturday, and - most importantly - a good walk for Miss Pup, whose frantic weekend whimpers and frenetic restlessness suggest that she has learnt to differentiate between weekdays and weekends (though that may, in truth, largely be due to the inordinate amount of time on lazy Saturdays and Sundays that it takes for her people (us) to get ourselves sorted and leave the house, as opposed to the almost military precision we engage from Monday to Friday, curtailed by the dual demands of jobs and school).
We usually try and schedule some family time out of the house at the weekend, be it a coffee in town or a drive into the country - nothing too ambitious. My husband may also make the most of any spare hours in the garden, his pastime of choice when he's at a loose end, and this is where I expected to find him casually pottering when I returned from a meet-up with a friend one recent Saturday afternoon.
Instead, to my astonishment, he had got stuck in with a passion, having accomplished, amongst other things: the relocation of the picnic table from its position in the summer patio area at the rear of the house to the front garden (having enlisted the assistance of our younger daughter); the disposal of the wood from a decking section and sundry other small structures via a tip trip; and the stringing up of various lights at strategic points around the garden.
Our younger son, who had accompanied his dad to the recycling centre, had apparently been wonderfully helpful, ferrying large pieces of wood from the car and launching them into the premises' huge skips without fuss.
I was impressed by my son's enthusiasm, which was further demonstrated when, casting my eye over the repositioned table - and observing the sorry state it was in - I announced my intention to paint it the following day, and he immediately piped up, offering his support.
I rather suspected his initial zeal for the task would have waned as the appointed hour drew near, but he was as willing as ever, peppering me with enquiries about the start time, and helping me clean the wood in readiness. Locating in my dad's garage the original tub of paint I had purchased to transform the picnic bench from its rather uninspiring raw timber appearance to a muted cornflower blue, I was relieved to note that there seemed sufficient paint remaining to restore the attractiveness of the table.
My young son and I set to work after our Sunday roast: brushes in hand, we dipped and stroked, expelling the jaded surface of the wood and refreshing its summery tones, my son occasionally - in his eagerness - splattering the path nearby and himself into the bargain.
Partway through the process, I was obliged to answer a phone call and pull my focus away from the project. Undaunted, my son remained absorbed in his application, and once I was able to return my attention to the table, I was gratified by his progress: another few minutes' effort, and our job was complete.
We cleaned our brushes under the outdoor tap and balanced them on a stone to dry, then stood back and admired our handiwork, congratulating each other on a job well done. The note of spousal approval from my husband later was the icing on the cake - though it felt like a bit of a cheat in light of my son cheerfully announcing how much fun he'd had. I couldn't help but agree; just don't tell my poor overworked husband.