The following conversation has been a recurrent theme in my house just lately, with details changed to protect us from predictability:

MOM: Okay, Jacob, it's time for school. Let's get a coat on.
JACOB: No.
MOM: Not an option, chief. Do you want to choose a coat, or me?
JACOB: No.
MOM: Okay, then. Red coat it is.
JACOB: I don't WANT the red coat.
MOM: Last chance to choose. Red or blue coat today?
JACOB: No.
[Flurry of wrestling and whining which ends up with the child ensconced in the blue coat and the mother irritated and cranky and unconcerned that the coat somehow ended up backwards because the hood muffles the whining a little.]
JACOB: I want the RED coat.
MOM: You can wear the red coat tomorrow. Off we go.
[Doppler effect of whining raising in pitch and then fading off as the trek to the car continues.]

Argh. I know, he's 2, it's what they do. And this whole patient-parenting thing is probably a better plan, in the long run, than giving in to the urge to stuff him into a cardboard box and ship him anywhere at all. By the time we arrive at his preschool, 4 minutes later, he's happy and mellow again. Traitor. The least he could do is be snotty around the people who are PAID to put up with that.