#kiddiyappers

Hey there, Wallaby.

It's me, Yuki. I'm 8 months old, and I've got something to say. You see, every day is like a big adventure for me and I'm always excited to see what each new day will bring.

When the first rays of the sun peek through my nursery window, I can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline. It's like I'm on the cusp of discovering a new continent, or in my case, a new toy under the sofa.

My family contribute to this daily anticipation. My older brother, Tommy, leaves his Lego blocks around, and each day I find a new piece to gnaw on. It's like a treasure hunt, but with a risk of choking. And let's not forget my dog, Fido, who has the uncanny ability to hide my pacifiers. It's a thrilling game of hide-and-seek every day!

But there's this one thing that tries to mess it all up: mashed bananas. Yeah, those squishy, mushy things my mom thinks I should eat. She says they're good for me, but yuck! They're not my cup of milk, if you know what I mean.

Now, I could let this banana business turn my day sour, but nope, not me. I've decided I'm not gonna let some squishy banana spoil my fun. There's too much cool stuff to do, like giggling when I play peek-a-boo or feeling super happy when I shake my rattle.

Some babies might cry over mashed bananas, but I'm Yuki, and I'm not about that. I just make a funny face and move on. Because after the bananas, there's always something good, like a warm hug or a sweet lullaby.

So, Wallaby, I just wanted to tell you and everyone else that we babies are tougher than we look. We might be small, but we've got big hearts and even bigger smiles. And a little banana isn't going to change that.

So, here's to the new day. May it be filled with unexpected joys, minor mishaps, and hopefully, no mashed bananas.

Always keep it real.

Dear Wallaby,

My name is Tania. I am 6 months old and I have a problem. A big one. Maybe you can help me understand this phenomenon.

Why do I keep putting my fingers in my mouth?

Seriously, why?

It's a question that has been gnawing at me (no pun intended) for quite some time now. I don't understand. I mean, there I am, sitting in my high chair, minding my own business, when suddenly, my hand veers off course and heads straight for my mouth. It's like my fingers are on a mission, and their destination is always the same - my drooling mouth.

I've tried to discuss this with my teddy bear, Mr. Fluffles, but he just stares at me with his button eyes, offering no advice. My parents, bless their hearts, seem to find this habit of mine amusing. They coo and laugh, snapping pictures as if I'm performing some sort of circus trick. But this is no laughing matter, Wallaby. This is a serious issue that needs addressing.

I've observed the adults around me, and none of them seem to have this problem. They use their hands for all sorts of things - eating, writing, waving - but never do their fingers find their way into their mouths. So why can't I stop?

Is it a survival instinct? A subconscious desire for comfort? Or is it simply because my fingers taste like the mashed peas I had for lunch? The uncertainty is driving me up the crib wall.

so I implore you, Wallaby, to shed some light on this matter. Is something wrong with me? Is it normal for a baby like me to be so obsessed with the taste of my own fingers? Or am I just a weird little drool machine?

In the meantime, as I continue my quest for answers, I expect to keep on struggling with this behavior which, perhaps, is one of those mysteries of life.