The 35 ml Problem
On imperfect help that you can’t do without
“The art of leading anyone — at home or at the office — is to turn imperfect help into leverage.”
Although I still have three months left in my maternity leave, I’ve decided to start training my helper now — letting her handle one feeding and one diaper change a day, just to begin.
And contrary to everyone’s expectation, it‘s not just grunt work — there’s math involved.
We were working out how much formula my baby girl needed. A simple calculation: she needs 100ml total, I’ve already pumped 65ml of breast milk, how much formula do we add?
“25ml,” my helper said.
I felt my face go tight, my eyebrows furrowing, and I heard myself say, “What?”
It’s really simple math — the kind I’d expect anyone to handle. Seeing that I was annoyed, she stared at me with a blank expression, and that was when I felt the rush of blood to my head.
“It’s 35ml,” I said, sternly, escalating my voice.
She shifted her gaze to the bottle, still wearing the same blank expression. I rolled my eyes. “Just feed her to this line,” I said, pointing at a marking on the bottle.
For the rest of the day, the helper stayed quiet, and so did I. I still didn’t understand how someone could fail such simple math. How was I going to leave my baby with her when I went back to work?
That night, after dinner, the confinement nanny pulled me aside. She told me my helper was just nervous, and gently suggested both of us try to relax.
It’s said that it takes a village to raise a child. But here’s the thing no one tells you about this village: it’s full of people who come with different skills, work with different methods, and learn at different rates. Worse still, the mother — the supposed CEO of baby care and household — is also new to this. She’s learning on the job too, because there’s no operating manual for any specific baby. Combine that with hormones and sleep deprivation, and you have a perfect recipe for arguments.
So…what to do about it?
As CEO, I could use my authority to issue executive orders and override everyone else’s decisions. That would guarantee compliance — at least when I’m watching. It wouldn’t guarantee anything when I’m not, and it wouldn’t leave room for second opinions, or for anyone else to grow into competence.
Or I could just do everything myself, so no one can mess up or defy me. This would soothe the anxiety of feeling out of control. It would also mean kissing sleep goodbye, because taking care of a newborn is a lot of work.
As I weighed the two options, I was reminded of something that happened earlier in my career — when I made the transition from individual contributor to manager, and got caught in the same dilemma. I expected my team to follow my carefully written protocols and execute the work the way I had. Instead, I found myself repeating instructions, double-checking outputs, and “correcting” their work over and over. I was frustrated. I’m not proud of this, but I let the frustration show — to the point where I was exhausted by my own rage and started wondering if it would just be more efficient to do everything myself.
It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
I couldn’t possibly own every detail of every product I managed. Talking to developers and designers alone would have eaten half my day; sponsors and customers would have eaten the other half. There would have been no time left to actually think — about strategy, about roadmaps, about where the product was going.
I had to let go. Of the frustration. Of the insistence on “perfection” — or rather, just the way I do things.
But what if the help genuinely isn’t up to standard?
This is the question that keeps the mama bear — and the perfectionist manager — awake at night. And it’s a fair question. Patience without judgment becomes self-deception.
So before condemning anyone as unfit, here’s the diagnostic I run:
1. Is this a must-have, or just a nice-to-have?
Perfectionism is the greatest enemy of efficiency. If it’s a nice-to-have, let it slide. Most of the things I’ve gotten upset about in my life turn out, on reflection, to be nice-to-haves dressed up in must-have clothing.
If it really is a hard requirement, keep going.
2. Is this task new to them? And are they willing to learn?
If both are yes, what they need is time and supervised practice — not annoyance. Annoyance is just a tax on someone who’s already trying. Give them more reps and watch what happens.
If they’re not improving over time, keep going.
3. Have I actually trained them properly? Is the instruction clearly documented?
A surprising amount of “incompetence” turns out, on closer look, to be poor onboarding wearing a costume. Writing things down — actually writing them down — goes a long way.
If the training is solid and the gap is still there, keep going.
4. Is the gap across the board, or just in specific areas?
Almost no one fails at everything. Most people are uneven — strong in some places, weak in others. The work isn’t to find people with no weaknesses. It’s to figure out whether the strengths outweigh the weaknesses, and whether the weaknesses can be mitigated.
Which brings me back to my helper.
She’s hardworking. She cleans well, she cooks well, and she adores my baby girl. Discouraging her over a math problem would be a poor trade for everything else she brings. So my mitigation is small and practical: I made a table. It lists every combination of breast milk and formula she might need, so she doesn’t have to do the math. It cost me an hour. It’s going to give me back months of peace.
This, I think, is what it actually means to channel frustration into problem-solving. Most people aim their anger at the person — attributing the failure to capability, or attitude, or character. The diagnosis may even be correct. But it doesn’t solve anything. It’s easy, instead, to fall into a pit of rants and resentment. And it’s even easier, from inside that pit, to lose trust and quietly take back every burden onto your own shoulders — which only deepens the resentment, because now you’re alone and exhausted.
So, instead of fixating on the person, redirect the anger to the gap — between where they are and where you need them to be. Then help them close it.
This is the art of leadership — at home or at the office. Most people are just uneven. Your job as the “CEO” is to figure out how to build around the weak places without throwing away the strong ones.
Next time you feel the rush of blood to your head, pause. Run your diagnostic on the gap, not the person.
The table on my kitchen counter is a small version of that work.
I liked this perspective. Most people have strengths worth building around.