Looking back I feel like an idiot for not figuring out what was happening sooner. Though in my defense, during those first few years of life, thinking was...difficult. Managing to make connections from my surroundings to the countless memories of my past was an impossible task. An infant's brain simply wasn't capable of any sort of analytical thought. Or any kind of thought really. Besides things like, "hungry", "cold", or "sleepy". And I'm not even sure those even count as real thoughts. They're more like emotions I guess. Actually I'm not sure where the line between thought and emotion is drawn, the point is that babies do not have the mental capacities to make any sort of great leaps in logic.
That being said, I was still aware that something was wrong.
There was a prickling at the back of my mind. Confusion when I spied my reflection in the mirror as a caretaker laid me on the bathrooms' changing table. Concern when I tried to feed myself smashed peas, the first solid food I'd ever had, and just smeared it on my face. Because when I picked up the spoon it felt familiar, like I'd done this before. When the caretakers called "Katsumi!" I hesitated before responding, that wasn't my name...was it?
I started to pay more attention to my surroundings. At about one and a half years old however, my detective skills could use some work. Still I managed to figure out that I was a baby again somehow, I was at some sort of orphanage, certainly not my home or anyplace I'd been too before. I hadn't seen my family since I'd gotten here, and most importantly, I could not remember how or why I arrived here, wherever here may be.
Next came the hard part, using my memories to figure where exactly I was. This is where I made my most embarrassing mistakes. For example, when I finally noticed that one of my caretakers had bright blue hair, my brain very unhelpfully supplied an image of "Splat" hair dye, the scent of hair bleach, and faint recollections of tumblr aesthetic pages. I dismissed the boy as some sort of punk music fan.
I eventually worked out that the language everyone was speaking was Japanese. The food I was being fed at the orphanage seemed to reinforce that I must be in Japan somewhere. It seemed I had at least solved the mystery as to where I was. This thought excited me until one day on a scheduled park trips I craned my neck up and out of my carriage to see...Mount Rushmore?
Huh, I thought sitting back down. I guess I'm not in Japan after all. Mount Rushmore is in South Dakota right? It's a lot more orange than I thought it would be. And I'm still not sure why everyone is speaking Japanese. Maybe this isn't an orphanage though, the U.S. doesn't have those anymore...maybe I'm in a foster home and the foster parents are Japanese? Already exhausted from all my earlier thinking that was my running theory for the longest time. This answer contented me for awhile and though it left a lot of things unanswered, it was the most reasonable explanation I could come up with.