Every morning, a fierce battle is waged in my living room. The hostilities emerge not from some deep fundamental and philosophical differences between mother and son—the conflict arises over a pair of pants and a shirt.

It’s not the War of the Roses in this house, it’s the War of T-Shirts and Shorts.

I’ve come to realize that my son, Vaughn, is living in the wrong climatic zone of the United States. Clearly, he was meant to live in a tropical maritime climate and not the Midwest. He is the physical incarnation of the song Margaritaville…without the margaritas. He is the 5 year old equivalent of Jimmy Buffet.

The perfect world in Vaughn’s eyes includes t-shirts, shorts, and sandals. The required clothing for a Midwestern winter (especially the one we are currently weathering) does not fit my son’s idea of what clothing should be. Now mind you, this is my quote unquote typically developing child here. His sensory world does not have room for snowboots and parkas. And I must admit, I am sick to death of sweaters and I eagerly await the day when I can banish the winter wear to the depths of the garage.

In the meantime though, Illinois continues to feel the wrath of Old Man Winter and t-shirts and shorts feel a lifetime away, moreso for Vaughn than anyone else.

The T-Shirt Treaty was signed this morning by both mother and son. I have agreed to give in to his t-shirt demands while he agrees to wear pants that extend past his knees—at least whilst he is in public. He agrees to wear a coat as long as it doesn’t have to be zipped. I concede to turn up the heat and let him wear shorts in the house.

What is it about childhood and the freedom from restrictive clothes? The corsets and layers of clothes have long been relegated to the annals of history but I’m as likely to get my boys in a heavy sweatshirt as I am to broker peace in the Middle East. And my spectrummy son? Well, let’s just say that as soon as he walks in the door, underwear becomes highly fashionable.