Mark Wahlberg's Daily Routine Means He Is An Absent Father

Yesterday, Mark Wahlberg released his daily routine. It’s not your typical day, but he’s not your typical Wahlberg, given that he is neither a personal injury attorney nor a slicer of corned beef. Pat blogged the insanity of his day, but I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that Mark’s schedule clearly speaks to his unwillingness to parent his children.

Mark and his wife Rhea have four kids. As families go, that’s a good-sized family. Let’s assume that the children wake up around 7AM on school days. “Where’s dad?” one wonders, gesturing in sign language to his siblings like the kids in A Quiet Place so as not to disturb their movie-star father. “He’s 2/3rds of the way through his 90 minute shower,” responds the oldest, who knows the schedule by heart. They tiptoe downstairs for a hearty breakfast of rice cakes and goat milk, which they extracted from the herd themselves as part of their grueling daily chores which their father insists “keep them hard.”

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At 7:30, they look up and see their father, butt-naked and pruned from such a long shower, saunter down a mirrored hallway with a 6-iron over his shoulder. He’s on his way to play golf for an hour. He’ll finish 18 holes because he sprints. He’ll wear shorts but no shirt. The club looks the other way.

He does not acknowledge the children. His mind is on golf.

Once he’s out the door, the children pack their backpacks with beef jerky and dried apricots for the 10-mile walk to school. They are forbidden from wearing shoes during the hike through the Hollywood Hills to their prestigious Montessori private school. Once, the youngest complained of sore feet and slipped her shoes on. Before she’d finished tying the laces, Wahlberg had dropped from the branches above, removed the shoes from her feet, and threw them over a power line. Since then, they assume he is always watching.

At 9:30, he returns from golf and heads straight into his cryo chamber. During the weekend, this is the children’s favorite time of day. As their father zips himself inside the cocoon, the machine hums and they can speak out loud–albeit in hushed tones–for an hour. They call it “out-loud time” and, for just a short window each day, they feel like they belong in their own home.

At 10:30, it’s back to silence as the patriarch emerges for his snack. He eats a handful of pecans over the course of 30 minutes, chewing methodically, staring at the faces of his offspring, standing in the doorway. They keep their heads on their homework. They know better than to ask for help.

Half an hour later, family time begins. For two hours, Wahlberg talks on the phone with studio execs, his agent, and the people who run his foundation. His children act as his assistants, taking calls, placing the right people on hold, allocating their father’s time as only they know how.

The afternoon sees more of the same. Meetings and workouts for dad, chores and strength training for the children. At 5:30, they all sit down to dinner as the sun is still high in the sky, as though they’re 85 years old. Once the children have cleaned the dishes, father presses a button and soundproof metal shutters descend over the windows of their home, sealing out critters, burglars, and the light of the moon. The kids head to their barracks and turn in. Tomorrow is another big day for dad.