Have a meal with families with infants these days, and you might get the impression that the planet is full of dietary allergens.
Dads and mums have been taught to winnow away culprits like egg whites, citrus, peanuts, berries and beef from the babies' menu. But be not beguiled. If such conventional wisdom or long-held dogma is a reliable guide - which, of course, it often is not - the food allergy rate should have been declining.
So it goes. There's no perfectly neat rule to keep allergy at bay.
Which brings us, somewhat uncomfortably, to the question of whether there is a genuine need to avoid the potential allergen like water leak from the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant. No one is more qualified to stir the cauldron of food allergen controversy than the United Kingdom scientists who published their landmark peanut allergy study in the New England Journal of Medicine this week.
Peanut allergy is no joke; you can get vomiting, itchy hives, a swollen tongue - or worse, die when the swelling occurs in the windpipe impeding your breathing - after one small scoop of peanut butter. Overwhelmed by the threat of peanut allergy, the scientists designed an elegant study and randomly assigned some 640 infants 4 to 11 months old with serious atopic dermatitis or egg allergy either to eating peanut regularly (three or more meals per week) or absolutely-no-peanut diet until age 5.
Contrary to those who expect infants with early introduction of peanut (as early as four months old) to be at high risk of developing peanut allergy, the scientists find that early peanut consumption leads to a far lower odds of peanut allergy at age 5.
That is a surprise to everyone. An accompanying editorial called the results "so compelling" and the rise of peanut allergies "so alarming" that guidelines for how to feed infants at risk of peanut allergies should be revised soon. None of this is to suggest that we should feed our babies whatever we want. But right now, we learn that avoidance isn't the answer.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Page-turner
"Gee, what's that sound?" An elephant turns his head and finds his best friend Piggie doing cartwheel. Who wouldn't read on to find out what will catapult Piggie into the elephant's life?
Piggie says, "What do you want to do today?"
"I want - aaa."
"Yes?"
"aaaaaa"
"A what?" Piggie is flummoxed. And we too.
"aaaaaaaa!!"
By then, our brain is wired to sniff out what elephant is talking about. A ball? A swim? A hat? And so, to keep us from putting down the story book, the author anchors readers in this very simple guesswork. In case you are curious, you can find the answer from the picture book Pigs Make Me Sneeze! by Mo Willems.
I learned more about the secret of grabbing readers' attention fast - from the very first sentence - after reading Lisa Cron's Wired for Story. Picture a breadcrumb trail leading kids to go deeper and deeper into the thicket before reaching the candy house: not everyone knows the ropes of putting the breadcrumbs strategically. Some of the crumbs are too small to be seen. Some are eaten by birds. And you know who is the expert in putting the breadcrumbs?
My 5-year-old daughter will tell you the answer: Mo Willems. As any Mo Willems aficionado knows, he places gold coins, and not just breadcrumbs.
Piggie says, "What do you want to do today?"
"I want - aaa."
"Yes?"
"aaaaaa"
"A what?" Piggie is flummoxed. And we too.
"aaaaaaaa!!"
By then, our brain is wired to sniff out what elephant is talking about. A ball? A swim? A hat? And so, to keep us from putting down the story book, the author anchors readers in this very simple guesswork. In case you are curious, you can find the answer from the picture book Pigs Make Me Sneeze! by Mo Willems.
I learned more about the secret of grabbing readers' attention fast - from the very first sentence - after reading Lisa Cron's Wired for Story. Picture a breadcrumb trail leading kids to go deeper and deeper into the thicket before reaching the candy house: not everyone knows the ropes of putting the breadcrumbs strategically. Some of the crumbs are too small to be seen. Some are eaten by birds. And you know who is the expert in putting the breadcrumbs?
My 5-year-old daughter will tell you the answer: Mo Willems. As any Mo Willems aficionado knows, he places gold coins, and not just breadcrumbs.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Reports
R.A. Fisher's null hypothesis significance test transformed his field as few statisticians ever do. It goes like this. We run an experiment and assign half of subjects (like flipping a coin) to a wonder drug and another half to get a placebo. If we somehow show good results with our proposed drug, we have to prove that there's only one chance in twenty of getting results this good.
One out of twenty. Enter those numbers into calculator and we see that equals 0.05.
The probability threshold, or the p-value in statistician's lingo, of 0.05 is a magic number we are all obsessed with. Everybody I know, including myself, makes an anxious pilgrimage to this p-value whenever we run a statistics test on computer. To get a sense of what really happens when we execute the so-called signficance test, think about Cinderella's stepsister waiting for her shoe test. Hair on our arms stand straight up. Our hearts drop to somewhere in the bowels, waiting for the almighty p-value to pop up in the statistical package result page.
Those are the kind of moments when you wait and stare, and say, jeez, I've gotta go to the rooftops and shout hurray when the p is less than 0.05 (and you can still go there and jump if it's way more than 0.05).
Another classical example of such anxious moment comes from opening the envelope (or electronic version) of your kid's school report. I received mine this afternoon. That should have been an easy experience. But it wasn't.
I know there won't be p-value or ranking in my daughter's school report. Why, then did it take me pretty darn efforts to take a deep breath before opening the report? Admit it. It's because we are careworn parents.
One thing we know for sure: parents are anxious by definition.
As I read along the letter, the principal's disclaimer in the first few paragraphs made the report less stressful - and to good effect. To paraphrase the parenting expert Michael Grose, before you rip open the report do a little self-check to see if you are in the right frame of mind: Are your expectations for your son or daughter realistic and in line with their ability?
It doesn't take much of an imaginative leap to understand what the principal means by the tricky nature of expectation. His insight isn't new. Too much expectation can turn kids off learning. Too low and there is nothing to strive for. The curved, but not linear, relationship has played a central role in many things for centuries. It's called the Laffer curve. When we plot the child's effort on a vertical axis and the parental expectation on a horizontal axis, the curve turns out to look like a camel's hump. Definitely not a straight diagonal line.
The point is just this: the highest point on this curve is never to be on one end or the other. Usually somewhere in the middle. It's where we are aiming for.
One out of twenty. Enter those numbers into calculator and we see that equals 0.05.
The probability threshold, or the p-value in statistician's lingo, of 0.05 is a magic number we are all obsessed with. Everybody I know, including myself, makes an anxious pilgrimage to this p-value whenever we run a statistics test on computer. To get a sense of what really happens when we execute the so-called signficance test, think about Cinderella's stepsister waiting for her shoe test. Hair on our arms stand straight up. Our hearts drop to somewhere in the bowels, waiting for the almighty p-value to pop up in the statistical package result page.
Those are the kind of moments when you wait and stare, and say, jeez, I've gotta go to the rooftops and shout hurray when the p is less than 0.05 (and you can still go there and jump if it's way more than 0.05).
Another classical example of such anxious moment comes from opening the envelope (or electronic version) of your kid's school report. I received mine this afternoon. That should have been an easy experience. But it wasn't.
I know there won't be p-value or ranking in my daughter's school report. Why, then did it take me pretty darn efforts to take a deep breath before opening the report? Admit it. It's because we are careworn parents.
One thing we know for sure: parents are anxious by definition.
As I read along the letter, the principal's disclaimer in the first few paragraphs made the report less stressful - and to good effect. To paraphrase the parenting expert Michael Grose, before you rip open the report do a little self-check to see if you are in the right frame of mind: Are your expectations for your son or daughter realistic and in line with their ability?
It doesn't take much of an imaginative leap to understand what the principal means by the tricky nature of expectation. His insight isn't new. Too much expectation can turn kids off learning. Too low and there is nothing to strive for. The curved, but not linear, relationship has played a central role in many things for centuries. It's called the Laffer curve. When we plot the child's effort on a vertical axis and the parental expectation on a horizontal axis, the curve turns out to look like a camel's hump. Definitely not a straight diagonal line.
The point is just this: the highest point on this curve is never to be on one end or the other. Usually somewhere in the middle. It's where we are aiming for.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Mathematics
Imagine taking a class in integral calculus, frustrated and puzzled. A long exhale. "What the heck is the point of studying mathematics?"
That's what Jordan Ellenberg is showing in his book How Not to Be Wrong.
Right now, I'm learning from this professor of mathematics why mathematics is the extension of common sense by other means. Soon after borrowing his book from the public library, I found mathematics everywhere.
It happened to be the numeracy week in my daughter's school; there were number games here and there.
And then our family had a weekend holiday at the Discovery Bay. My daughter pointed to the seashell spirals on the hotel elevator door, and said something I haven't heard before. A foreign and recondite name, somewhat resembling Leonardo da Vinci. A big word that left me in a quandary: Did she refer to the name of the nautilus? But is it?
Ah I think hard, trying to google a word or two, here and there, and soon the word "Fibonacci" pops up. That's what my daughter was talking about. Fibonacci Sequence, as what her teacher taught her.
Another mathematics stuff, again. Everywhere.
That's what Jordan Ellenberg is showing in his book How Not to Be Wrong.
Right now, I'm learning from this professor of mathematics why mathematics is the extension of common sense by other means. Soon after borrowing his book from the public library, I found mathematics everywhere.
It happened to be the numeracy week in my daughter's school; there were number games here and there.
And then our family had a weekend holiday at the Discovery Bay. My daughter pointed to the seashell spirals on the hotel elevator door, and said something I haven't heard before. A foreign and recondite name, somewhat resembling Leonardo da Vinci. A big word that left me in a quandary: Did she refer to the name of the nautilus? But is it?
Ah I think hard, trying to google a word or two, here and there, and soon the word "Fibonacci" pops up. That's what my daughter was talking about. Fibonacci Sequence, as what her teacher taught her.
Another mathematics stuff, again. Everywhere.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Snail
I was told stage version of any book won't be as attractive as the original book. That's the rule, everyone says so.
It would be natural for me to read Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl, without bothering to watch the film version.
True wit, however, exists onstage, and Toby Mitchell's drama version of the picture book The Snail and the Whale changes the way I look at adaptations. For those of you who haven't read the book version, that's a tall tale of a tiny snail. And a great big, grey-blue humpback whale. That isn't just a snail, and it is a snail with the itchy foot to sail, to hitch a lift, to see the shooting stars and enormous waves. The story book chronicles the voyage of this tiny snail sitting on the tail of the humpback whale. All the way from the coral caves to the golden sand.
I've been reading this picture book with my daughter for a while. We watched the drama version last week.
But it's hard to transform this story into a drama. A dizzyingly complicated challenge to depict two creatures with extreme ranges in body size. Remember, a tiny snail and a great big humpback whale. Imagine your difficulty in telling the story of Gulliver's Travels in drama format, for that matter.
How should the drama get around? Obviously I'm not supposed to give away too much of the plot. I would only go so far as to let you know the production team borrowed the theme of Storybook Soldiers. That's an organisation which helps British military personnel record bedtime stories for their children to listen to while daddies are away.
So instead of casting as the tiny snail and the great big whale, the two characters become a girl who stays home and her dad in the navy.
What could be easier for a drama actor to be a little girl with itchy foot than to be a tiny snail longing to go around the world? Then the bedtime story (of the tiny snail and the great big whale) recorded by the navy daddy enters the picture.
The transition - from an adventurous snail to the curious little girl and from the brave whale to the strong dad who serves on a military ship abroad - deftly connects two stories. My worries are over. The original picture book and the adapted drama mingle like Velcro. And I understand what is meant by the dad when he says in the drama, "A good story can take you all round the world, without even leaving your room."
It would be natural for me to read Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl, without bothering to watch the film version.
True wit, however, exists onstage, and Toby Mitchell's drama version of the picture book The Snail and the Whale changes the way I look at adaptations. For those of you who haven't read the book version, that's a tall tale of a tiny snail. And a great big, grey-blue humpback whale. That isn't just a snail, and it is a snail with the itchy foot to sail, to hitch a lift, to see the shooting stars and enormous waves. The story book chronicles the voyage of this tiny snail sitting on the tail of the humpback whale. All the way from the coral caves to the golden sand.
I've been reading this picture book with my daughter for a while. We watched the drama version last week.
But it's hard to transform this story into a drama. A dizzyingly complicated challenge to depict two creatures with extreme ranges in body size. Remember, a tiny snail and a great big humpback whale. Imagine your difficulty in telling the story of Gulliver's Travels in drama format, for that matter.
How should the drama get around? Obviously I'm not supposed to give away too much of the plot. I would only go so far as to let you know the production team borrowed the theme of Storybook Soldiers. That's an organisation which helps British military personnel record bedtime stories for their children to listen to while daddies are away.
So instead of casting as the tiny snail and the great big whale, the two characters become a girl who stays home and her dad in the navy.
What could be easier for a drama actor to be a little girl with itchy foot than to be a tiny snail longing to go around the world? Then the bedtime story (of the tiny snail and the great big whale) recorded by the navy daddy enters the picture.
The transition - from an adventurous snail to the curious little girl and from the brave whale to the strong dad who serves on a military ship abroad - deftly connects two stories. My worries are over. The original picture book and the adapted drama mingle like Velcro. And I understand what is meant by the dad when he says in the drama, "A good story can take you all round the world, without even leaving your room."
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Graffiti
Ask parents how their children act (or react) in different situations, and chances are good that mums and dads make wrong guess half of the time. Just don't pretend you know more about your kids than you do, because you don't.
During the festive lunch last Sunday, I entertained my friend's daughter by making a few drawings. It turned out that I had chosen an unfinished page of my daughter's sketch book. By the time I realised my mistake, I had nearly used up the whole page. My daughter cried. It's a matter of unauthorised graffiti, I know, but also perhaps a wee bit of jealousy.
So I vowed never to "invade" my daughter's drawing without asking. But some vows are made to be broken, right?
I went to a wedding party with my daughter this Sunday. With an eye for subject to draw and a deft style, Jasmine quickly pulled up chair and settled down with her own picture of wedding cake. After a moment I noticed my friend's two-year-old girl and thought that it would be a good idea to invite her to share my daughter's colour pencils. And she did. My daughter actually gave her a new paper to scribble all over.
Wow. Good girl.
I let the two girls sit side by side. Everything seemed fine.
But this was not exactly what happened. Or at any rate, this wasn't what I was told on my way home. "Dad, I want to tell you something good,"my daughter said. "Olivia scribbled on my paper, just next to my wedding cake."
A long exhale. (Unauthorised graffiti again - oh my!) "How did you feel?"
"It's okay," my daughter answered. "I mean, Olivia used the black colour pencil, and I took that as the shadow of my wedding cake. I added some more black colour. It works."
Amazing.
During the festive lunch last Sunday, I entertained my friend's daughter by making a few drawings. It turned out that I had chosen an unfinished page of my daughter's sketch book. By the time I realised my mistake, I had nearly used up the whole page. My daughter cried. It's a matter of unauthorised graffiti, I know, but also perhaps a wee bit of jealousy.
So I vowed never to "invade" my daughter's drawing without asking. But some vows are made to be broken, right?
I went to a wedding party with my daughter this Sunday. With an eye for subject to draw and a deft style, Jasmine quickly pulled up chair and settled down with her own picture of wedding cake. After a moment I noticed my friend's two-year-old girl and thought that it would be a good idea to invite her to share my daughter's colour pencils. And she did. My daughter actually gave her a new paper to scribble all over.
Wow. Good girl.
I let the two girls sit side by side. Everything seemed fine.
But this was not exactly what happened. Or at any rate, this wasn't what I was told on my way home. "Dad, I want to tell you something good,"my daughter said. "Olivia scribbled on my paper, just next to my wedding cake."
A long exhale. (Unauthorised graffiti again - oh my!) "How did you feel?"
"It's okay," my daughter answered. "I mean, Olivia used the black colour pencil, and I took that as the shadow of my wedding cake. I added some more black colour. It works."
Amazing.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Resolution
I worked overnight in hospital this New Year's Eve, and didn't have time to make any resolution.
That's supposed to be the ideal time of setting goals. After 365 days, it's time to take stock of any gain (in terms of waist circumference) and loss (think the time with Facebook). Let me be honest. I am not used to make new year's resolution. I don't think there is science with this tradition.
Except now I do: I read about new research telling us to make plan and avoid keeping a backup plan (translation: lame excuse), to chop up a massive goal into parts (translation: to let yourself feel good with each small step).
Near the end of last year, I purchased an app that allows me to create to-do-lists in my smartphone. The reason? A key factor is its design for users to put a tick next to a completed item, followed by hitting a gratifying button "to delete all completed tasks."
The same way infants celebrate potty training by the sound of toilet flush, ticking off an item from my to-do tasks makes me feel good.
Yes. And it's called instant gratification.
That's supposed to be the ideal time of setting goals. After 365 days, it's time to take stock of any gain (in terms of waist circumference) and loss (think the time with Facebook). Let me be honest. I am not used to make new year's resolution. I don't think there is science with this tradition.
Except now I do: I read about new research telling us to make plan and avoid keeping a backup plan (translation: lame excuse), to chop up a massive goal into parts (translation: to let yourself feel good with each small step).
Near the end of last year, I purchased an app that allows me to create to-do-lists in my smartphone. The reason? A key factor is its design for users to put a tick next to a completed item, followed by hitting a gratifying button "to delete all completed tasks."
The same way infants celebrate potty training by the sound of toilet flush, ticking off an item from my to-do tasks makes me feel good.
Yes. And it's called instant gratification.
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