Before my son, Jay, learned to say “no,” he learned the international expression for “yuck”: scrunching his nose at every plate of food put before him. Snow peas, organic spinach—those were one thing, but he also sneered at kid-friendly staples like pasta, pizza and mac ’n’ cheese. I soon learned that my little boy isn’t a picky eater who shakes his head at healthy foods. He’s a noneater. I’ve had to beg and bargain to get this kid to open his mouth for a potato chip, never mind chickpeas. Once he could walk and was always in motion, he began burning way more calories than he was consuming. Soon I was the only mommy at birthday parties urging my toddler to take another bite of cake. I was the parent threatening her child with a time-out if he didn’t eat the french fries from his Happy Meal. “He’s not eating,” I’d complain to his pediatrician. “Kids go through this phase,” she’d say reassuringly. I was far from reassured. When Jay slipped into the under-5 percentile on the weight chart, I took him to a nutritionist. “Try avocados. They’re high in fat—but it’s the good kind of fat,” she said. “Really?” I asked. “That’s all you’ve got? I can’t get this kid to eat a chicken nugget, and your professional advice is to feed him something green and gooey.” Still, I kicked my skepticism to the curb and tried it. Didn’t work. I bought the books, read the research. “Kids will eat when they’re hungry” was a common school of thought. “Don’t force it. Don’t make the dinner table a battleground.” So I didn’t. But Jay never seemed to get hungry. As it turns out, Gandhi had nothing on my son. Like a diehard political protester on a hunger strike, Jay just stared at his food. Okay, enough with the touchy-feely approach, I thought. Time to get tough. I announced a three-bite rule: Jay must eat at least three bites of everything on his plate before he’s excused from the table. We spent many long, painful, tearful hours in a standoff. And my son discovered at least 147 ways to say “disgusting.” On to plan C. I’d prepare food to look like something else. Raisins, cream cheese and celery would appear to be “ants on a tree branch.” I built log cabins out of asparagus. I created faces out of meatballs and spaghetti. Jay was amused but far from fortified. Then I tried “sneaking” the nutrition into food. You know, vegetable purée into burgers. Problem was, he wouldn’t eat burgers to begin with, let alone the enhanced version. My “aha” moment came at my mother’s house when my family gathered for a holiday meal. Jay’s three younger cousins—all voracious eaters—dug into the broccoli and beef piled high on their plates. Not to be outdone, Jay, too, licked his plate clean. Like a professional at a pie-eating contest, my son devoured everything put before him. I watched in stunned silence. Turns out the only thing Jay hates more than eating is losing. These days, I invite every “good eater” I know over for a meal. Jay races to finish his chicken, potatoes—even green beans—as long as there’s an appreciative audience for his superhero eating abilities and the chance to say “I won” to another contestant. As for learning to be a good sport, we’re still working on that one.