Got a Minute? Here, Hold My Monkey.

Norman, my three-year-old springer doodle, has one rule for life: he must be touching a human at all times. Preferably me.

Norman is large. Norman is clumsy. Norman does not knock. His move goes like this: he walks over and stares at me. Just stares. I keep typing. He keeps staring. And the second I stop paying attention, a giant paw slowly lifts and lands on my lap. No bark, no fuss. Just a paw, a pair of eyebrows, and the clear understanding that whatever I was doing is now on hold.

If the paw doesn’t work, he escalates. He parks his whole body between me and the TV. Or between me and whoever I’m talking to. A big, fluffy, breathing wall with one message: please pay attention only to me.

I’ve led people for a long time, and I’m here to tell you: Norman works in every office in Canada. He’s just usually holding a coffee instead of a chew toy.

Photo by Leiada Krözjhen on Unsplash

Meet the monkey

Back in 1974, William Oncken Jr. and Donald Wass wrote an article for Harvard Business Review called “Management Time: Who’s Got the Monkey?” It became one of the most popular pieces the magazine has ever published, and fifty years later it’s still the most useful thing I know about why managers are so tired.

Their idea is simple. Every problem comes with a monkey, and the monkey is the next move. Whoever walks away from the conversation owning the next move is now carrying the monkey. That’s it. That’s the whole theory. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

The hallway ambush

Got a minute?

Photo by Des Récits on Unsplash

You know this one. You’re walking to get a coffee. Or you’re working from home and a chat message pops up. You have a plan for the next hour. You’re feeling good.

Watch closely, because it happens fast. Before that conversation, your employee had a problem and you had a coffee. After it, you have the problem, and you never got the coffee.

Two days later, they’re standing in your doorway, Norman-style, between you and the work you were actually trying to do: “Hey, any update on that thing?” Notice what just happened. You are now reporting to your employee. They are supervising you. And to be fair to them, they’re doing a lovely job of it.

If you leave the conversation owning the next move, you left with the monkey.

Confession: I ran a monkey sanctuary

Even when I was National Director of Human Resources, I worked from home. You’d think that would protect me. No hallway, no doorway, nobody leaning on the edge of my desk. Surely the monkeys can’t get you through a webcam.

Oh, they can.

I’d get up with the very best intentions of making a coffee in my own kitchen. Then the little Zoom chime: “Got a quick minute to jump on?” Thirty minutes later the call ended, the coffee was still a dream, the other person was cheerfully off to lunch, and I was sitting there with three brand-new monkeys. Norman, naturally, was standing between me and the screen.

By Thursday my home office was a zoo. My team was waiting on me for decisions they were perfectly capable of making. And I was answering emails at 10 p.m. on a Sunday, wondering why everyone else seemed so relaxed.

They were relaxed. Their monkeys were at my house. Literally.

Why the best bosses carry the most monkeys

Here’s the uncomfortable part. Monkeys don’t land on lazy managers. They land on the helpful ones. Taking the monkey feels good. You’re needed, you’re fast, you’re the person with the answers. Being needed is lovely. Being the bottleneck is not.

And every monkey you take is a skill your employee didn’t get to build. You think you’re being kind. You’re actually keeping them on the bottom rung of the ladder, and keeping yourself as the only person in the building who can solve anything. If you own a small business, you already know where that ends: you can’t take a week off without your phone ringing at the cottage.

The Monkey Ladder

This is the tool I come back to most. Oncken and Wass described five levels of initiative an employee can take with a problem. I think of it as a ladder, and the job of a good leader is to help people climb it.

1. 5
   Act on your own, then report routinely."Handled it. It's in my weekly update."
2. 4
   Act, then tell me right away."I fixed the Henderson order. Here's what I did, in case you hear about it."
3. 3
   Recommend, then take the action we agree on."Here's the problem, here are two options, I'd go with B. Okay if I run with it?"
4. 2
   Ask what to do."What should I do about the Henderson order?"
5. 1
   Wait until told.Says nothing. Stares. Waits for you to look away. Norman lives here.

Where most of your team should be living most of the time.

Oncken’s advice was blunt: the bottom two rungs should be off-limits for anyone who isn’t brand new. Level 1 and level 2 aren’t problems your people bring you. They’re problems your people hand you.

How to hand the monkey back (nicely)

None of this means you stop helping. It means you help in a way that leaves the monkey where it belongs.

1. Ask first, and then wait. “What do you think we should do?” Then stop talking. Count to five in your head. The silence will feel awful. Let it.
2. Agree on the next move, and make sure it’s theirs. “Great. What’s your next step?” If the answer is “you’ll call them,” you’re not done.
3. Put the monkey on a schedule. “When will I hear from you?” A check-in date keeps the monkey on their shoulder and off your desk.
4. Feed monkeys by appointment. Hallway problems get a time, not an answer. “Bring it to our one-on-one Thursday, with two options.”
5. Shoot the ones that don’t need to live. Some monkeys should never have been born. “Do we actually need to solve this?” is a real question, and a very freeing one.

And yes, some monkeys are yours

I’d be a pretty poor HR advisor if I left this out. Some monkeys belong to you, and you should take them without hesitation: a harassment complaint, a safety concern, an employee in crisis, a decision only you have the authority to make, or a brand-new hire who doesn’t know the ropes yet. Take those, and say so out loud: “This one’s mine. I’ll have an answer for you by Friday.”

The skill isn’t refusing monkeys. It’s knowing whose they are.

P.S. Norman has not read this article. He is, however, currently standing between me and my screen with one paw on my lap. Some monkeys you keep.

Help your people with their problems. Just don’t adopt them.

Be honest: how many monkeys are sitting on your desk right now? I’ll go first. Three, and a springer doodle. If you’re running a monkey sanctuary of your own, let’s talk. And if this one landed, subscribe below so the next one finds you.

Original writing for Work, Considered., the Work, Advised. blog. Photos from Unsplash, credited above. Personal stories draw on Daniel's own experiences; no confidential workplace examples are used.