Cindy

Droog

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December 3, 2007

It’s Broken, Mr. CEO; My Toddler Can Explain It To You

My son has a new obsession, and I’m not quite sure what to make of it. It’s with things that are broken. In fact, he is starting to break things on purpose, just so he can bring them to me, and say, “It broke.”

It started with blocks, which, since they break apart on their own, was not such a big deal. I’d snap his miniature Lego tower back together in an instant, and he seemed pleased with my skills in fixing something on such short notice, and with such small effort.

Last week, when his fancy progressed into helium balloons, I wasn’t sure what to do. He brought me one that had gone flat – and should have been removed from his toy box weeks ago – and said, “It broke,” with that look of anticipation that I read as, “Certainly, my mommy can fix anything.”

But I couldn’t. The next day brought with it another impossible case. A children’s book with a chewed off cover.

And again, Mommy was helpless. But rather than fight to prove otherwise, I simply held his hand and guided him outside to play. The perfect distraction. Still, then and there is when I realized that my son was catching on to me. I’m left only with hope that his little test of me ends here, and that he doesn’t try to break, say, one of his own bones by jumping off the couch, just to see what my true capabilities are.

Despite my failure at repairing all things, I had to acknowledge – and celebrate – my young son’s intelligence. It only took him two weeks – 14 days – to understand that I haven’t the talent, or the resources, to fix all things. That’s months, if not years, shorter than what it takes some people in corporate America to come to the same realization.

“We don’t have brand recognition? Well, that will be fixed with next month’s television ad airing during ‘What Not to Wear’. Our target audience loves that show!”

“What? We didn’t win the local Entrepreneur of the Year Award? Let’s launch a partnership with that organization that builds houses for homeless people. That will make us a shoe-in for 2008!”

Fast forward two years later, and it’s very likely that the company has neither brand recognition, nor some statue of a naked guy with eagle’s wings encased in glass in the lobby.

Corporate executives always seem to want things fixed. The problem is that they don’t know the difference between a tower of blocks and a deflated balloon. In the case of the tower, you reinforce the base, snap a few existing parts into the right place, and you’re good to go.

But in the case of the balloon, your best option is to go out, spend the $3.50, and buy the new balloon. Sure, you can try it the hard way. You can un-tie the end, attempt to avoid letting out the minimal amount of air that’s there, and use your own breath – or even a bicycle pump – to blow in more. In the end, your balloon might gain a few inches of height, just enough to please a toddler for one more day.

Such is change in business. Some like to do it the hard way, like the balloon. They suck the talent from a few, asking them to carry the lion’s share of the work. But they can only help it drift along enough to appease the stockholders – who often have the attention span of toddlers – for one more quarter.

The execs would be better off to go find a new leader, a helium tank if you will, to really affect change.

The hardest part is recognizing when you – yes you – are the actual barrier. When it came to fixing my son’s book, I could have glued, sewed, bought grommets, or tried a myriad of ways to be his hero. And maybe I should have. Instead, I admitted my own weakness, and together, he and I moved on.

There is no shame in honesty. If you can’t fix your business, it’s not likely that I can either. But it’s OK to say so and move on. I’ll hold your hand.

© 2007 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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