I wasn’t born. This fact was relayed to me by my slightly older brother. About the time he was six and I was five. The traumatic childhood memory of this revelation came flooding back to me this week, thanks to an endearing news item I stumbled upon. I read how two parents in England who got tattoos to match their young daughter’s unique birthmark. Ah, birthmarks. They run through my family. I’m talking the port wine stain kind. They are