I’m apprehensive as Tuesday approaches. That’s my morning in Family Court, where I’ve been working weekly as a volunteer mediator for almost ten years — almost five hundred days. If I saw an average of two families each time — a conservative estimate — then I’ve mediated for almost a thousand.

Along with a handful of like-minded volunteers from Medford and Lumberton Leas and the wider community, I have the job of helping parents who live separately to work out a schedule for parenting time. Judges decide this matter for parties who can’t agree, but they believe that if parents negotiate with each other it’s better for everybody. One soon finds out, though, that parents who have parted because they can’t get along, or who never shared a home, don’t always work well together on behalf of their children. Personal issues get in the way, sometimes obliterating concerns for the children’s welfare. If one believes, as I do, that the best place to raise children is a home with two parents who like each other as well as the children, it’s easy to see most of the situations encountered in Family Court as sad.

Sadness comes in degrees. Just plain sad: Broken home with separated parents, or parents who never lived together, but who are able to negotiate a plan in a calm, respectful manner. Sadder: Parents who don’t trust or respect each other, yet manage to arrive at a plan that neither one is happy with, because they don’t want a judge telling them what to do. Saddest: Parents so alienated that no compromise is possible; their case must be decided by a judge.

In a class by itself — Infuriating: One parent, who has made no effort to communicate with the children for months or longer (and in some cases had no more than the biologically necessary relationship with the other parent to begin with — and may even need to establish his paternity), suddenly wanting parenting time — which promises, incidentally, a reduction in court-mandated child-support payments. The other parent, cynical and resentful, diagnoses the motive in a flash. The mediator avoids taking sides by pointing out that child support is not subject to mediation, that the parents must take their financial dispute before a hearing officer, after they have worked out a parenting plan — which is unlikely to happen, so they go before a judge first and are told how to divide their time. (Sometimes a judge is more optimistic and sends the parents back for another try at mediation.)

I estimate that about ninety-five percent of cases fall into one of those four categories.

Our work requires certain material tools: A private room with table and chairs. A conference phone in case one parent lives at a distance. A panic button to call a sheriff to restore order (which I’ve never pressed). Writing materials, including preprinted standard forms. A supply of tissues, which I regularly bring to court.

We also rely on behavioral tools: Ability to project neutrality even when one parent seems to be so obviously in the right. Willingness to listen to both sides equally — sometimes separately (in “caucus”) if a one-on-one conversation seems to offer a chance of progress. Remaining nonjudgmental. Authority to demand calm when discussion turns to quarrel. And common sense.

I had an inkling of what I was getting into before volunteering, and I hesitated for a couple of years after I had already started mediating in Small Claims Court. Family Court veterans had this advice for newcomers: Don’t get emotionally involved, or you won’t survive. Their problems are their problems, not yours. Easier said than done, and perhaps not even good advice. How is it possible to hear such sad stories; to picture the children, impotent victims in their parents’ fights, sometimes not even wanted; to offer tissues to a frustrated, weeping parent; to call a sheriff to restore order; and not feel anything? I find feelings to be requisite for this work. An unfeeling mediator can’t empathize with the pain on clear display, nor recognize the rare situations — the other five per cent — that temper the sadness with a different mood. Consider these:

Parents do not usually bring their children to parenting mediation, for obvious and good reason, but occasionally nobody’s available to watch them. On one such visit, two young boys entertained themselves under the table, where the panic button was just asking to be pushed. In no time a sheriff came rushing to “help” me. Mother took care of the matter. Sorry, Officer.

On another occasion, the proceedings became so loud that a mediator on the other side of the wall thought I was in trouble, which I wasn’t. That mediator pushed his button and referred the sheriff next door. (We do look out for each other!) With an apology for the ruckus I sent the sheriff back to his station.

One father came into the room, promptly helped himself to a fistful of the candy I’d put on the table, and started a quarrel with the mother, which she reciprocated. When he’d had as much as he could take (i.e., of the quarrel), he jumped up, knocked over the table, which landed in my lap, and stomped out. By the time I found the panic button I didn’t need it anymore.

While it’s not good to expose children to such scenes, in those cases where children were present the parents behaved as though aware that they’d be judged. One girl, three or four years old, sat comfortably on my lap doodling on paper I’d given her while her parents talked. On her way out I kissed the back of her hand and said, “Goodbye m’lady, nice of you to visit.” She didn’t know what to make of that, but I think her parents left feeling that court wasn’t such a bad place.

A two-year-old blonde was less outgoing, keeping her face buried in her mother’s sweater most of the time. Once in a while she stole a peek in my direction with an expressionless face. As the session wound up, she peeked again and smiled — as though she sensed things would be OK. Clearly the tone of her parents’ voices conveyed what she needed to hear.

Human warmth does not come from children alone. A handshake and “Thank you for your time” are commonplace. The more expressive adults may even offer a hug. Such demonstrations are more than adequate reward for a mediator’s efforts.

I find myself actually liking some of the people I’m there to help, even if they won’t or can’t help each other, and I’m sorry to see them go. They almost seem to belong together, but I have neither the qualifications nor the authority to counsel them, so I simply wish them well.

There was an aunt, who was taking care of a child because neither parent was competent to do so, who made such intense eye contact as she spoke with me and looked so absolutely honest and trusting that I barely restrained myself from giving her a kiss on the cheek. “What a good woman you are!” I felt like saying.

Some situations justify extra effort, even if unorthodox. In one session, the wife steadfastly looked at the opposite wall when addressing her husband except when she got really mad. Eventually she walked out, and he followed her into the waiting area. An alert sheriff sensed a potential problem and laid a gentle hand on the husband’s shoulder to keep him from following her to the elevator. I invited the husband back to the mediation room to vent and asked him whether he’d like to continue if I could get his wife to come back. His distress was obvious and he promptly agreed. Later that day I telephoned her at home and the moment I told her who I was she apologized for her behavior. She brought their child to the next session and the couple came to an agreement.

Parents like these still feel affection for each other. Others speak warmly to and of each other and even make jokes together; they are comfortable with each other at a distance. Recently a man openly confessed — after a session that almost failed — that he still loved the woman with whom he had been arguing, and she accepted his declaration without a hint of cynicism. I was moved to suggest that they hug each other as they left. They did, and he added a kiss, then another, for good measure.

These are satisfying experiences, even though the underlying sadness is always there. Is it worth my while and stress to keep going back for those five percent — and the frustrating other ninety-five? I used to wonder, but I don’t anymore, because I’ve discovered a truth about myself: Every choice I make is motivated by self-interest. When I no longer sense that volunteering in Family Court serves my self-interest, I’ll retire.

Meanwhile, perhaps I’m being too apprehensive as Tuesday approaches. It’s a long shot, but I could end up with a child in my lap or one peeking out from behind her mother’s sweater, smiling because, despite the separation, she senses that both her parents love her.