Elizabeth Joyce: Giving birth? Then Nick Knowles best

He clearly has issues. Many of them. And they're serious.

But I'm actually all for his latest decision.

He's standing by his pregnant wife's request to leave her to it when the big day comes. Yes, when baby Knowles comes a-calling, she'll be on one side of the maternity suite door and he'll be on the other.

"Men will tell you that they want to be at the birth but it's because they think they ought to be," he said this week. "There's a huge amount of guilt, fear and worry on a man's behalf when their partner gives birth, along with a feeling of complete uselessness."

To me, this is the most sense Knowles has ever spouted.

Sure, he'll only be a few footsteps away and still be the first one to hold his newborn son but, when things really start kicking off, he won't be in the room.

Like I say, perfect sense as far I'm concerned.

There's too much tearing and swearing, too much pushing and gushing for me to ever want my other half there, front and centre.

I get that whole "it's beautiful, it's natural, it's their baby too" nonsense but, come on, seriously, why on earth would you want them hovering over you? God forbid with a camera in hand too.

I'm therefore 100 per cent with Jessica Knowles and her "I prefer a little bit of smoke and mirrors" way of thinking.

"Giving birth is a very physical process and I don't want him to see me in that vulnerable state," she's said.

Too right, love. We're on the same page.

There's only one person I'd want there – other than the recommended medical professionals with a year's supply of top-drawer painkillers – and that's my mum.

And that's because mums have a sort of other-worldly power in making their children feel better. A calming palm and gentle stroke of the hair is sometimes all it takes to soothe and settle.

It doesn't matter if you're two months or 40 years, when things get heavy, only your mum will do.

I remember once getting a stomach bug so severe I turned greener than Grotbags and my parents ended up having to change the bathroom carpet. Don't ask.

It was a 48-hour nightmare of vomiting, shaking and hallucinations about Dick Van Dyke – and only my mum could get me through it.

My dad bought me Ribena and my sister looked at me with that sympathetic tilt of the head, but it was Mummy Joyce who nursed me back to health and seemed to know what I wanted and needed before I even knew myself.

If I'd been with my fella at this point, I can think of nothing worse than having him there, seeing me all pukey and putrid.

Call me crazy, but I don't want him with the mental image of me clinging to the toilet mumbling something about the chimney sweep from Mary Poppins coming to kill me. Although, if he's reading this, he's got it now anyways.

Which is why Mr and Mrs DIY SOS are on to something here: there's no shame in being on other sides of the door for childbirth.

If it doesn't work for you, fine, God bless, get through it together.

But if, like me, the whole idea fills you with dread, despair and the inability to ever look your partner in the eye again, go it alone.

Well, apart from your mum.