Do you believe in Santa Claus?

At first, we disagreed. Although my husband wanted to instill the tradition of Santa Claus, I hesitated.

“It’s fun!” he said. “And I don’t want them to feel left out, when other kids are talking about it at school.”

“I don’t like lying to them,” I said. Years ago, I had interviewed a father whose family celebrated Kwanzaa, in commemoration of African American community and heritage. He didn’t work hard all year just to make his children think Santa Claus brought those gifts, he said, and I had found his argument compelling. Why not give credit where it’s due?

However, my husband had grown up with the tradition, and even my immigrant Chinese parents had let us hang stockings and get a Christmas tree, because they knew their children wanted to celebrate, as a matter of assimilation. But I never believed, not truly, because they didn’t put up much of a ruse.

I may not be the only parent who wondered whether to continue the tradition. A 2013 survey by the Pew Research Center found that 31 percent of Americans pretend Santa will visit on Christmas Eve or Day. By comparison, 72 percent recalled participating in that activity in their childhood.

Eventually, I relented and I have to admit, it’s been fun seeing how excited Gege and Didi are for Santa’s visit. This year, since Thanksgiving fell early, the holiday season has gone on ... and on ... and on. When we noticed a few Christmas decorations around town before Turkey Day, Gege had been galled; Christmas, he felt, had to wait its turn.

Soon enough, we plunged into the mania of holiday parties, decorating sugar cookies, prying open the little doors on the Advent calendar, and watching stalwart television specials, “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” the 1965 cartoon (little kids crazy dancing!), and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” the 1964 stopmotion musical (Burl Ives as the Snowman!).

We’ve been reading a childhood favorite of my husband’s — Raymond Briggs’ “Father Christmas” — the British children’s book featuring a cantankerous Santa who mildly, hilariously cusses at the cold and the snow and dreams of a beach vacation. Every time I utter “blooming” this-or-that, we giggle.

In the first grade, the twins have been learning about the difference between fiction and nonfiction, and Gege proclaimed this picture book nonfiction — because it’s about Santa, who’s real.

Even still, they’ve started to question aspects about jolly old St. Nick.

“How can all the toys get made in Santa’s workshop?” Didi asked.

“It must only be for the children in California,” he concluded.

“It’s ... magic. Santa lives in all our hearts,” I said.

“I thought he lives in the North Pole,” Gege asked.

“He does,” I said, and let the inconsistency hang in the air.

Another time, Gege asked, “Are Santa’s elves his children?”

“Sort of,” I said. In truth, they’re closer to being his slaves, his servants, or akin to the Oompa Loompas in Roald Dahl’s “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” — something disturbing, if you probe too closely.

To teach them about other holidays celebrated at this time of year, I invited my brother’s girlfriend over on the first day of Hanukkah. She lit her menorah, Gege and Didi donned hats, and we repeated after her as she chanted the ancient and beautiful blessings.

Afterward, Gege wanted to put the menorah away, in case it caused Santa to bypass our house.

“He won’t,” I assured him, and told him the story behind the holiday, the oil lamp in the temple that burned for eight days.

Next he wanted me to tell him about the origins of Christmas.

Two people named Joseph and Mary were looking for a place to give birth, I said, and they ended up in a stable because they had nowhere else to go.

“To give birth to baby Santa?” Gege asked.

A reasonable question. I racked my memory, trying to remember what connection, if any, between Santa Claus and Jesus. Later, poking around on my own, I learned that Nicholas, a monk in the early Christian church, is a patron saint of children.

Other imaginary characters have come up for debate, too. “I only believe in Santa and his blacknosed reindeer,” Didi said. “Rudolph and his red nose aren’t real; that’s just a story.”

“Leprechauns are fake,” Gege said.

“If leprechauns are fake, then where do rainbows come from?” Didi asked.

“From water and sunshine, dude!” Gege said.

As a child, my husband pieced together the truth when he realized Santa’s handwriting on the gift tags matched his mother’s, with the same distinctive curlicues. “That was my Rosetta stone,” he said. I love seeing how my sons’ minds work, how they apply what they’re learning, figuring out how to think critically — a skill that’s never been more important than in these times. May that truth-seeking carry us through the holidays and beyond.

“I only believe in Santa and his black-nosed reindeer. Rudolph and his red nose aren’t real; that’s just a story.”