Meet Thesaurus, a friendly but slightly peculiar dinosaur. His home is a tropical paradise in which friendly pastel-colored dinosaurs frolic and splash, snacking on coconuts or nibbling particularly scrumptious leaves. They are a happy group—but Thesaurus doesn’t quite feel like he fits in. Like the other dinosaurs, Thesaurus loves to eat, swim, play and wrestle. But he is also hiding a secret. 

It turns out that Thesaurus is a prehistoric bibliophile. He devours books like the other dinos devour foliage. He worries that his love of books and words makes him a tad different from the rest of his dinosaur clan, so when he settles in to read, he’s careful to stay out of sight. But on one fateful day, he forgets himself and realizes he’s been reading aloud! Have the others heard him? Will they make fun of him? How will he fit in when the thing that makes him stand out is something he loves? 

With his pleasantly plump form, cheerful disposition and winning smile—not to mention his erudite vocabulary—Thesaurus is the kind of picture book protagonist that storytime dreams are made of. Using vibrant seaside hues to color her whimsical illustrations, Anya Glazer’s palette of punched-up pastels pairs with a clever, lighthearted narrative to make for a story that’s both lively and engaging. Thesaurus Has A Secret is a delightful and reassuring tale for anyone who’s ever worried about following the crowd.

Our most beloved stories seem to grow each time we tell them, expanding to encompass new ideas we’ve come to treasure as well as familiar elements we hold dear. Jerry Pinkney brings a well-trod tale to the surface and fills it with new life in The Little Mermaid.

Pinkney has been a fixture in children’s literature for more than five decades. His distinctively detailed watercolor illustrations lend a sense of majesty and depth to every book he touches. Many of his acclaimed titles are adaptations of folk and fairy tales, including his Caldecott Medal-winning The Lion and the Mouse and the Caldecott Honor books John Henry (written by Julius Lester) and The Ugly Duckling.

In The Little Mermaid, Pinkney creates a lavish and vibrant world—three worlds, actually. Underwater, the merfolk’s kingdom teems with life, bubbling and busy. Amid cool blues and greens, intriguing ocean creatures, including fish, eels and turtles, fill the pages, hiding in every nook and cranny. Above the surface, waves roll onto a sandy beach under a warm yellow sun as gulls swoop through the air. Finally, deep down below in a skeletal lair, a truly terrifying Sea Witch and hissing serpents are sure to induce shudders.

Though The Little Mermaid would be a success solely on the merits of Pinkney’s illustrations, his writing is equally strong. He employs vivid language that gives the book an unusually elevated, sophisticated tone. There’s a marvelous sense that Pinkney is telling this story exactly the way he would if he could gather us together around a crackling fireplace to trade tales late into the night.

The combination of rich language and lush artwork could overwhelm a less experienced creator, but in Pinkney’s accomplished hands, it’s exactly right. The Little Mermaid stands out as an impressive addition to the body of work of one of the most acclaimed children’s book creators of all time, and as a worthy rendition of a classic tale that has lured readers and storytellers alike for generations.

A young immigrant adjusts to life in America in Thrity Umrigar’s evocatively titled Sugar in Milk. “When I first came to this country, I felt so alone,” the young girl reveals. Though she lives with her Auntie and Uncle, she struggles with loneliness and misses her family and friends back home. Recognizing her niece’s sadness and isolation, her Auntie takes her for a walk and shares a story with the girl:

Once upon a time, some Persian refugees made their way to India but were turned away by the king. Then a brave man dissolved some sugar into a very full glass of milk, creating a visual metaphor to convey how the refugees would “sweeten your lives with our presence” and successfully establishing peace between the refugees and the king. Hearing this story becomes a turning point for the girl, and she begins to appreciate her “new and magical homeland.”

Illustrator Thao Le’s palette incorporates captivating cool tones of teal, copper and crimson as well as rich, beguiling blues. Elaborate borders set off the spreads depicting Auntie’s story and become increasingly detailed with each page turn, marking her ancient tale as separate from the primary narrative and adding a sense of formality to its telling. The book’s opening and closing spreads—that is, before and after Auntie’s story—are a study in contrasts as the girl’s dull, solitary winter days vanish, replaced by spring sunshine and blooming flowers.

Sugar in Milk powerfully demonstrates how a simple story can radically alter one’s perspective for the better. It’s a timely exploration of timeless themes of acceptance and what it means to call a place home.

As this picture book love letter to Black children everywhere opens, a couple anticipates the birth of their child. “You were dreamed of,” reads author Tami Charles’ text, “like a knapsack full of wishes, carried on the backs of your ancestors.” Even the sky knows that this child’s life will matter, as we see a star shoot across the sky in the baby’s honor, a precursor of the celestial symbolism that fills the book. We follow these same parents, particularly the boy’s mother, as we read about the milestones in the child’s life—the baby’s first steps and words, as well as his first encounter with a book, one that mirrors the boy’s own skin color and “dreams.”

As the boy grows older, he begins to encounter and question racism, from microaggressions in his classroom to injustice and brutality he sees on the news. In one spread, he sits with his grandfather watching reports of widespread protests. But page after page depicts the boy being loved and supported by his family, and depicts his family reminding him of his self-worth.

Illustrator Bryan Collier incorporates proud Black faces into his remarkably textured collages and employs flower petals as a recurring motif. In a closing note, Collier writes that these petal shapes are influenced by his grandmother, a quilter who partly raised him. “Did you know that you are the earth?” reads a spread as a flower blooms behind the boy, Black faces from both past and the present looking out from vividly colored petals.

Charles weaves connections between Black children today and the ancestors who came before them. Boldly, beautifully and cosmologically, it also connects them to the very creation of the universe itself, driving home how strongly the “strength, power, and beauty” of their lives matter. All Because You Matter is a powerful, poetic manifesto that is required reading for every family in America.

The Barnabus Project is a heartwarming tale about accepting our differences and searching for freedom from the bestselling duo Terry and Eric Fan (The Night Gardner), who are joined on this project by their brother, Devin.

Barnabus, a tiny half-mouse, half-elephant hybrid, is a Failed Project in a world obsessed with Perfect Pets. He has only ever known the dark, underground world of the laboratory where he was created. As a Failed Project, his fate is to never leave the confines of his bell jar, but he dreams of making it to the world above and seeing for himself all the wonders that his friend, Pip the cockroach, has told him about. When word gets around the lab that all the Failed Projects are going to be recycled, Barnabus realizes that he may have to put his escape plan into action sooner than he thought.

The use of light in the illustrations lends an aura of hope to the story, even when little Barnabus and his friends find themselves in the darkest of situations, and the cool-toned color palette is soothing and just the right amount of eerie. Barnabus, though considered a “failed project” within the world of his story, is in fact undeniably adorable, ranking approximately at the level of Baby Yoda on the cuteness scale, and the other Failed Projects in his lab are just as cute.

Barnabus is a miniature hero with a big heart and a whole lot of courage. The story’s exploration of his longing to be free paired with the book’s always timely message of acceptance gives The Barnabus Project mass appeal and a timeless quality.

“I want to be everywhere Mama is,” says a girl as she heads down the stairs one morning in the house she shares with her parents, her brother and her dog, Max. Her love for her family is clear, but she is especially taken with Mama, who sings a good morning greeting, “bright as sun,” to her daughter.

The two spend the day entire together. They comb one another’s hair, take a walk outside, sing and splashing in puddles, read together at bedtime and more—but the book’s central focus is on the particularities of Mama’s world, the details that her daughter takes in over the course of the day. She lovingly catalogs items that belong to Mama, including a fragile, floral-patterned mug, a red toothbrush, an oatmeal bowl, a fuchsia hair barrette and a pair of tall, red boots, comparing them to her own possessions. In a deft touch, the items are featured on the book’s endpapers. When Mama reads to the girl and her brother at night, the girl even observes Mama’s shining teeth as she throws back her head to laugh. She’s deeply smitten, and it’s easy to see why.

Author-illustrator Cozbi A. Cabrera occasionally incorporates evocative figurative language into the girl’s narration as to describe their day. “The clouds outside are wearing shadows,” the girl declares before she and Mama leave for their walk. As they sing to the sky during their rainy stroll, Mama tells the girl that a song is “highs and lows.” At bedtime, a “sleepy sun” turns the sky pink before darkness settles in.

Cabrera brings a joyous Black family and their eloquent yet cozy home to vivid life in brightly colored, highly detailed acrylic illustrations. The book’s pace slows considerably toward the ending, as the girl falls asleep and recalls the day she and Mama spent together. One spread depicts merely darkness with rich shades of blue filling every inch of the spread; it’s a lovely moment in which Cabrera lets the story breathe.

Me & Mama is a picture book love letter that captures the extraordinary bond between a mother and daughter on a completely ordinary day.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Me & Mama's editor/publisher, Denene Millner, goes behind the scenes of the first season of her new imprint, Denene Millner Books.

Leo and his father love their home in an old blue house right next to a majestic fir tree. It’s a rickety, scrappy home with peeling paint, a mossy roof, “leaks and creaks” and a heater that frequently breaks. And that is just how they like it.

But the neighborhood around the blue house is changing, with nearby homes torn down to build modern apartments. When the landlord sells their blue house, Leo and his father must also move. Grief-stricken, they slowly acclimate to their new home by painting its interior; they even paint a picture of their beloved old blue house and its fir tree onto a bedroom wall. As they take their time unpacking their familiar belongings into their unfamiliar surroundings, their new house ever so slowly becomes more of a home.

Author and illustrator Phoebe Wahl uses every tool at her disposal to carefully construct the details of her indelible characters and their world. Leo’s hair hangs down nearly to his waist, while his father sports a bearded, scruffy look. When they want to vent their anger about being forced to move, they turn on music, stomping and raging as a team: “They shredded on guitar, and Leo did a special scream solo.” (This may go down as the most punk picture book of 2020.)

The blue house is cluttered but relaxed, filled with things Leo and his dad love, such as vinyl records, plants, art on the walls and a stereo with big speakers. Their delightfully unkempt yard includes a thriving vegetable garden, tall sunflowers, a trampoline and a clothesline. Rendered in watercolor, gouache, collage and colored pencil, Wahl’s illustrations are much like the old blue house itself—ramshackle and endearing, with nothing glossy about them. They are as worn-in, cozy and comfortable as the home Leo and his father leave behind and mourn.

Best of all, however, is Wahl’s depiction of the tender and loving relationship between father and son. In one image, as the two sit dejectedly on a mattress surrounded by unpacked boxes in their new home, Leo leans into his father for an embrace, resting his head in his father’s lap, the gesture speaking volumes while saying nothing at all.

The Blue House is an immensely satisfying picture book about a family acclimating to a big change.

In Abi Cushman’s delicious moody first picture book, Soaked, rarely has a dreary day been so delightful.

Sometimes when you’re in a funk, you just need to stay that way for a while; so it is with Bear. Channeling his inner Eeyore, Bear declares his feelings on the book’s very first page: “Look at all this rain. Everything is dreary. Everything is drenched. And no one is happy.” Pelted by rain and holding an ice cream cone that’s been destroyed by the storm, it’s easy to understand where he’s coming from.

Amid a dismal gray and cloudy landscape, Bear’s downcast eyes perfectly convey his sour temper, which is nicely counterposed by plops of pink from his melted ice cream. Bear’s determination not to be cheered up by his patient companions—a sneaky badger, a watchful bunny and a big-spirited, fun-loving, Hula-Hooping moose—is impressive. Anyone who’s ever had a bad day will find Bear’s gloomy mood relatable, and only a reader with a heart of stone could resist the appeal of the dispositional tug-of-war between Bear and Moose.

Cushman propels her story forward with minimal text; her images do most of the work through a pleasing combination of spots and full-page spreads. In one, Moose stands on his head, apparently oblivious to the rain, as Bear sits on a log nearby, wallowing in his misery and letting out a “Blahhhhh. . . .” that spans the entire spread, highlighting Bear’s ennui. Pops of color contrast against the book’s muted palette and enliven the action, especially when it comes to Moose’s multicolored, glow-in-the-dark Hula Hoops.

There’s verbal fun, too, as when Bear, having been sufficiently restored to good spirits by his friends’ efforts, jumps in a puddle and gleefully exclaims, “It’s so splishy and sploshy! Silly and soggy!” Of course, even when the rain stops and the sun starts to shine again, brooding Bear gets the perfect last words: “Blah. Too sunny.”

Written with precision, lyricism and compassion, I Talk Like a River is a story about stuttering drawn from author Jordan Scott’s personal experience.

A boy is ashamed of his efforts to produce words and the resultant facial contortions: “All they see,” he says, referring to his classmates, “is how strange my face looks and that I can’t hide how scared I am.” The boy’s father recognizes that his son has had a “bad speech day” and takes him to a place where they can be quiet. At the river, the pair watches the water as it churns yet is “calm . . . beyond the rapids.” Pulling his son close, the father points to the water. “That’s how you speak,” he says.

Illustrator Sydney Smith (Town Is by the Sea, Small in the City) uses thick, impressionistic brushstrokes that dazzle as he represents the boy’s roiling interior world. In one gripping spread about the boy’s fear of public speaking, we see the classroom from his point of view. Students stare, their faces indistinct smudges of paint, the entire room distorted by the boy’s panic. But at the river—where Smith showcases the mesmerizing play of light on water in a dramatic double gatefold—the world becomes clearer.

Smith also plays visually with some of the book’s figurative language. The boy cites elements from nature as examples of the letters he finds most challenging to pronounce (P, C and M). Smith incorporates them into a striking spread in which pine tree branches, a shrieking crow and the outline of a crescent moon cover the boy’s face.

Without providing pat answers or resorting to sentimentality, I Talk Like a River reverently acknowledges the boy’s hardship. Scott’s story is as much about observant, loving parenting as it is about the struggle to speak fluently, as the boy’s father generously equips his son with a metaphorical framework to understand and even take pride in his stutter: “My dad says I talk like a river.” This is unquestionably one of the best picture books of 2020.

Sun and Moon Have a Tea Party delivers precisely the celestial gathering promised by its title: Sun and Moon meet for a tea party in the sky, cookies laid out before them on a cloud. They quickly discover, however, that they don’t see eye to eye. Because of their limited perspectives on the world, they don’t understand each other’s point of view.

Surely parents don’t get their children ready for bed, protests Sun, because children’s daytime activities are all he knows, and bright, sunlit mornings are when children get ready for school. Streets aren’t busy, asserts Moon. They are “as dark and as lonely as a moonless sky.” On and on they argue, until Cloud drifts by and suggests that they each stay up past their bedtime to see what the other sees.

Sun and Moon Have a Tea Party is the final book written by author-illustrator Yumi Heo, illustrated after her death in 2016 by Naoko Stoop, and it’s a splendid final gift to readers. The whole affair has a a timeless, old-school vibe, from its charming setup (who’d pass up a celestial tea party?) to Stoop’s soft-focus illustrations of parents and children in a friendly, intimate neighborhood, as Sun and Moon discuss what they regularly see from their aerial perches.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Naoko Stoop shares her experience of illustrating Yumi Heo’s final picture book.

Stoop uses plywood for her canvas, which affords appealing textures and sumptuous colors to her mixed-media illustrations. In one spread, as Sun questions how birds can “snuggle down,” the brilliant blue of the birds pops on a spread otherwise dominated by earthy tones. Stoop also personifies Sun and Moon in endearing ways. They each hold teacups as they snack together: Sun uses a ray of sunshine to hold his, while Moon’s arms are two thin wisps of clouds that hover next to her. She even crosses them petulantly when she and Sun come to an impass. Expect giggles. Sun’s and Moon’s awestruck facial expressions at their moments of epiphany after seeing the world through one another’s eyes are sure to inspire requests for repeat reads.

Sun and Moon Have a Tea Party is a sweet, sunny reminder of what we gain when we broaden our perspectives—with tea and cookies, to boot.

Demonstrating her deep understanding of the preschooler mind, Amy Schwartz’s charming 13 Stories About Harris delivers exactly what its title promises: 13 stories about a child named Harris, though his best friend Ayana figures prominently, too.

These are miniature domestic dramas; the longest story spans four pages, and a very funny one (“ ‘That’s why they call permanent markers permanent,’ Harris’s mother said.”) is just a single page. Most center on Harris’ imaginative play. In one, he draws an exceptionally long dragon’s tail on the sidewalk; in another, he and Ayana role-play worms “taking over the world” by jumping around in their pillowcases. Harris also makes butter with his mother, goes on play dates with Ayana, visits his preschool and more.

There’s a lot of humor here, much of it understated, as when Harris and his mother pet sit for Stanley, Ayana’s hamster, only to discover six baby hamsters in the cage. Another reads, “Harris was standing on his truck and he shouldn’t have been,” then wordlessly reveals the consequences of Harris’ actions after the page turn. The final story, in which Harris and Ayana declare they will hold hands “forever and ever,” wraps it all up on a tender note.

The illustrations are classic Schwartz, with finely drawn, carefully composed vignettes in vivid colors of children at play. The stories’ pacing varies, but each one gets it just right. Schwartz knows when to let her illustrations speak for themselves, such as Harris’ woeful fall from his toy truck, giving readers an opportunity to put two and two together. Put 13 Stories About Harris into the hands of young readers ready for a baker’s dozen of whimsical tales.

Journey under the sea in The Ocean Calls and discover the story of South Korea’s haenyeo.

Dayeon’s grandma is like a mermaid, exploring the ocean’s depths without an oxygen tank, then bringing abalones, octopus and other creatures to the surface. For Grandma and her fellow haenyeo, the water is home—a home she will teach her granddaughter how to find. But being a haenyeo is about more than seeking treasures beneath the waves; it’s a tradition that goes back hundreds of years. In the 1600s, South Korean women whose husbands were away in the military took on the task of gathering the king’s annual tribute of abalone. In 2016, the women known as “Korea’s granny mermaids” were placed on UNESCO’s Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.

Author Tina Cho writes with clear reverence for the haenyeo and narrates with resonant simplicity and honesty. She infuses Dayeon’s fictional story with details about the haenyeo tradition and way of life. We see the haenyeo carrying their gear to the beach, practicing their diving breath, exhaling with a whistling sound called sumbisori and gathering after a dive in the bulteok, a communal space on the beach, their worn faces full of determination and pride.

Jess X. Snow’s illustrations are saturated with wide strokes of deep blues and purples, and their use of light is masterful as they transport readers below the waves to peer up at the sun on the water’s surface. Washes of color contrast with intricately drawn shells and fish to create a world so encompassing and vivid, I found myself holding my breath with each dive. 

We may think of crowdfunding as a contemporary innovation of our social media age, but in their impressive nonfiction picture book Saving Lady Liberty: Joseph Pulitzer’s Fight for the Statue of Liberty, author Claudia Friddell and illustrator Stacy Innerst celebrate the 19th-century campaign of Hungarian immigrant and self-made publishing icon Joseph Pulitzer to raise more than $100,000 for the Statue of Liberty.

Friddell traces Pulitzer’s early life and struggles as a newcomer to America, but focuses mainly on his efforts to use the pages of his newspaper, the New York World, to launch a public awareness and fundraising campaign for Lady Liberty. In 1884, when funds for the statue’s pedestal ran dry, Pulitzer scolded wealthy New Yorkers for their lack of support and used the New York World to make an appeal to the masses. More than 120,000 people responded, and Pulitzer fulfilled his promise to print all their names in his newspaper. Over a million people attended the dedication and unveiling ceremony of the statue in October of 1886.

Innerst’s sepia-toned illustrations evoke the book’s late 19th-century setting and make effective use of design elements, including newspaper headlines and examples of delightful handwritten letters that accompanied small donations from children. A boy named Mark sold “two pumpkins and one squash at the market this morning” and sent along 10 cents. There’s even a humorous note from the dog, a forerunner to today’s trend of canine social media stars.

Historians young and old will appreciate the book’s extensive back matter, which includes an afterword, timeline, a wonderful selection of historical photographs, facts about Pulitzer and the Statue of Liberty, a bibliography and online resources.

Inspiring and well executed, Saving Lady Liberty is a timely reminder of the power of ordinary people to exemplify the best American ideals.